description: you went out with joe to hangout with his friends, but you get a bit overwhelmed (blurb).
word count: 1.1k … or 1.2k, idk.
warnings: fluff, joe x reader, reader experiences sensory overload, reader could be neurodivergent though it’s not explicitly confirmed, sharing a shower.
you had no idea why you even agreed to this.
joe wanted to hang out with some friends, and you felt bad about not tagging along. you almost didn’t, but you didn’t want to be a party pooper and leave him hanging.
as soon as you step into the restaurant, it was almost instantaneous sensory overload. the lights were bright, almost blinding; on top of that, your dress was itchy and digging into your skin in the worst way possible. the most awful part of all? there was a lot of noise. a lot. some people had families with children who were being…well, children. others were having obnoxious, drunken conversations.
you wanted nothing more than to go home. but alas, you stood along with joe, simply smiling and nodding as he talked with his friends.
but joe knew you all too well.
he could tell you were feeling a little agitated and overwhelmed. you fidgeted with your dress and small pieces of jewelry. you slowly but surely began scooting closer to him, and you almost appeared zoned out, like you were trying to ignore the ten million things occurring at once.
he leaned down, whispering to you, “are you okay, baby?” he asked, his voice soft and attentive.
you were tempted to lie; just nod and grin. but you didn’t. instead, you gave a small shrug, your hands shaking ever so slightly. “i-i don’t know,” you murmured, your voice soft and shaky, “just…overwhelmed.”
before you knew it, joe stood up straight, nodding and resting his hand onto your waist gently. he speaks to his friends, telling them that the both of you will be heading out a bit early. it was a sweet gesture, really. after all, most people in your life would tell you to suck it up and deal with it.
as you two got in the car, you sat quietly, tears in your eyes. you felt embarrassed, awful. you essentially ruined what was supposed to be a good moment with joe and his friends.
“i’m sorry…” you apologized, your voice meek.
joe shook his head, gently resting his hand on your thigh. “no, baby,” he assured you, looking at you fondly, “you’re fine. don’t ever apologize for feeling overwhelmed.”
you nodded, letting him gently wipe away your tears. before he pulled off to head back home, he plugged in his phone, letting you play whatever music you want.
he listened to more hiphop than anything, but in this moment, he wanted you to feel comfortable and happy. if that meant you listening to your favorite genre of music, then so be it. as you hummed to your favorite songs, his hand provided comforting strokes to your thigh.
as soon as you guys made it home, you sat down, preparing to remove your heels; however, joe stopped you.
“nuh-uh, babe. let me,” he said, his hands moving to the straps and buckles, working to undo them.
your gaze softened, watching him. “joey, hun…” you chuckled, watching him kneel down to take off your heels, “i can do this myself, yknow? i’m not a princess.”
“well,” joe chimed in, taking off one of your heels, “you’re a princess to me. and you deserve the best princess treatment.”
with little problems, joe slipped off your other heel, helping you up. he ushers you to the bathroom, patting your head. “feel free to use your body wash and stuff.”
“joe, babe, i don’t think you want to smell like cherry blossoms-”
“y/n.” joe interrupted your rambling, folding his arms.
with a small smile, you throw your hands up, turning to take a shower. joe steps in behind you, gently adjusting the water for the both of you.
his hands were gentle and comforting as he rubbed the soap into your skin, massaging in small circles. he made sure to not to move too abruptly or harshly. the same applied for when he washed your hair, except his touch was actually more light than usual.
after your guys’ shared shower, he carefully dried the both of you off and gave you one of his shirts to wear. once the both of you were comfortable and dry, you lay down.
“you wanna watch tv?” joe questioned, preparing to reach for the remote.
instead, you shook your head, opting for some cuddles in silence instead. and that was okay with him too. besides, he thought it would be something you needed after tonight. his hand sweetly ran through your locks in a soothing motion as he stared at you fondly. you looked peaceful, enjoying his warmth and presence.
he leaned in and kissed your forehead, his voice tender. “you still feel bad, don’t you…?”
you sighed. that was true. you know it’s not your fault; whenever you experience sensory overload, it’s a lot for you to handle. and you truly wanted to have a good time. you wanted joe to have a good time.
“yeah…” you nodded, your voice trailing off in guilt. “it’s just…a big burden at times. been overwhelmed over the smallest changes or things.”
“it’s not a burden, baby,” joe assured you, his hand resting on your cheek as his thumb felt your smooth skin, “your comfort and safety mean the world to me. if you aren’t comfortable, then i’m not comfortable.”
“you don’t think it’s weird that i have to blast music twenty four seven?”
“no. if that’s what helps you tune everything else in the world out, then that’s cool.” joe shrugged, smiling at you.
“hm. what about when i constantly fidget or make sounds?”
joe gave you another laugh, shaking his head. “princess, i don’t care about the little things that you do,” he affirmed, pressing a kiss onto your temple, “you don’t need to mask or hide your little quirks. it’s fine.”
“…you mean you won’t think of me any differently?” you asked, looking up at him as he spoke.
joe shook his head once more. “babe. i ramble to you about my little niche interests all the time. and you don’t think of me differently, do you?”
“i mean. i think it makes you a bit of a nerd…” you admitted sheepishly.
“wow…”
“in a good way! not like that!” you clarified, giggling and slapping his shoulder as he shook his head. he also laughed, clearly not taking your words to heart.
after a moment of silence, joe spoke, his tone serious yet warm and comforting. “seriously though,” he said, “i love you for you. every single thing about you is worth cherishing,” he murmured, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “and so help me god, if you think otherwise, i’ll write a list about all the things that i love about you.”
with a laugh, you nestle your head against joe’s shoulder. “fine, fine!” you surrendered, looking up at him.
“good. and if you ever feel overwhelmed, don’t be afraid to let me know.”
“okay…thank you, joey.” you hummed, leaning in and kissing his cheek softly. “i love you.”
“and i love you too. more than anything.”
as someone who is neurodivergent (audhd) and loves joe, this was very comforting to write 🥺
A/N: Okay, family. I'm back with my dearest neurodivergent!reader for some sickeningly sweet fluff with our favourite quarterback. I have absolutely zero doubt in my mind that Joe would be the most comforting person to fall asleep with. I, myself, have a lot of trouble with sleep (it's currently nearly 2:30am as I'm writing this) so this was a really cathartic one for me to do.
This fic explores neurodivergent ruminating at night, which is a very common feature of ADHD and autism. We often are so busy throughout the day that our brains don't have the time to think all of our thoughts, but then we get in bed, the lights go out, and our brains like to present us with every thought and worry we've ever had. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it ❤️ as always, I love to see your thoughts - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! And I so love talking to you guys about my readers in my ask box, so please do jump in my inbox and pick my brain about it. I love talking about it, especially my neurodivergent girlie. She is so special to me, and I love giving my fellow neurodivergent folks representation in our little family over here. Let's get into it. 🫶
Summary: Neurodivergent reader is having some trouble sleeping, and Joe, being the quarterback he is, quietly explains football rules to her.
Joe Burrow Masterlist | Neurodivergent!Reader Masterlist
WC: 3.5k
Warnings: None. Just pure fluff 💕
Something about the silence of night seems to have the opposite effect of what it should have on your brain.
The soft furnishings, plush carpet and blackout curtains make the room feel peaceful and dark. Joe’s sleeping form is warm and safe next to you. He’s on his side with one arm underneath your pillow, the other draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. His broad shoulders rise and fall with every breath. His breathing is soft next to you. He looks younger in sleep, the stress of carrying his team, the franchise and the city taken off his shoulders for a few blissful hours.
All things considered, you should be asleep. Dead to the world with nothing to do but dream and let your busy brain rest. The quiet of the room invites that.
Instead, you’re awake. Wide awake, brain scurrying around from one place to the next before you can even catch up with it.
Did you send that email?
Has your employer received your reasonable adjustments form?
When are you due for a refill of your meds?
The door’s locked, right?
Maybe you should check it, just to be sure.
But you can’t wake up Joe. He’s asleep. The season is weeks away from starting.
Has Joe mentioned anything about a plan for tomorrow?
Off season always meddles with your routine. The season is so long and drawn out that by the time it’s finished, Joe being home more often and having less facility time always throws your routine out of balance.
You’re getting there, though. There was no meltdown like there was last year, when your autism completely gave up on the concept of change and found it completely overwhelming.
Still, though, your hatred of change has been another Thing for Joe to get used to. Another Thing that your brain throws at you. Another Thing that you hate that Joe has to manage.
When you look over at the clock on the bedside table, the digital green numbers blink back at you.
12:47am.
You sigh.
You hate that your brain is like this.
Exhaustion is gnawing at your body. Every limb feels weighted with it. Your arms feel like soup, legs like jelly and if you were to shuffle downstairs to get a snack, you have no doubt that your feet would feel like they were walking through treacle.
You’ve been tossing and turning for almost two and a half hours. First, you were curled up in Joe’s arms, his chest bare and warm behind you. It was nice. Comfortable.
But then it got too warm, so you gently pried yourself out of him, but not without a sleepy little sound of protest from him. Then you were cold from the overhead fan, making you tug the comforter closer to your shoulders.
Then came trying to move into a comfortable position.
On your back.
One arm under your pillow, the other by your side.
On your left side, arms bent in front of you.
On your stomach, even, resting your head on your pillow with your arms folded beneath it.
On your right side, facing away from Joe.
But then you wanted to look at him, because even the sight of him makes you feel less anxious. Having him in your sightline gives your brain something to hold onto. It sounds clingy, but you don’t care. Not when he’s as handsome as he is.
So here you are. Back on your original side, facing Joe, utterly unable to sleep.
Your eyes are stinging, although you’re not sure whether it’s tiredness or tears.
A soft but frustrated little huff leaves your lips.
‘Shut up, brain,’ you mumble into the dark.
Your head moves to the side and you see your water bottle on the bedside table next to the clock. Suddenly feeling parched, you slowly reach a hand out to it and grasp it with your hand. You wince as you carefully shift your body so you’re sat cross-legged on the bed so you can drink, the straw moving slightly with every little gulp.
After you’ve had a drink, you replace the bottle into its original position on the table, but you don’t lie back down again. Sitting cross-legged feels good, so you stay sat for a while.
Just thinking.
Breathing.
Resting an elbow on your knee so you can rest your chin against your hand.
Not necessarily upset, just thinking, like thinking enough thoughts will get rid of enough of them to finally let you sleep.
You’re so deep in thought that you don’t register the little shuffle of movement next to you as Joe resurfaces.
He’s normally a deep sleeper. He has to be, with his job. His body requires rest to recover. His brain needs it to process everything he saw in film the day before.
But something changed in the air next to him, like his body could sense that something wasn’t quite right, and it pulled him back to the land of the living.
It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him. He looks around, blinking sleep out of them, and then…
Then he sees you. Your back is towards him, one of his old LSU shirts swallowing your shoulders. The soft little sleep shorts are tied at your waist, although one of the legs is bunched up around your upper thigh. He knows without asking you that it’s close to setting your sensory issues off. He can see your elbow resting on the inside of your knee. Not lying down next to him, not fast asleep.
Even from here, he can practically hear your brain whirring.
The first thing he does isn’t saying your name. It isn’t reaching out to gently rub your back, as much as he wants to. He realises quickly that you don’t realise that he’s awake, hyper-focused on whatever you’re thinking about, and the last thing he wants to do is startle you.
Instead, he shuffles his legs enough that your head moves to the side he’s on. The movement of him is deliberate, so that you know that he’s awake and he’s not just shuffling around in his sleep.
Your body twists, hands shifting to brace your body against the movement, and then your eyes meet his. The eyes that look back at you are grey in the dark, but still feel like home. His eyebrows are furrowed in concern. He’s already soft and sleepy, but he looks so cuddly that you almost fold yourself into him right then and there.
‘Baby?’ he whispers, more breath than sound.
Guilt pulses in your brain for waking him up, enough that it leaks onto your face.
Your eyes widen, your face visibly falls and your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. It’s like the words are there, in your throat, but something is stopping them from materialising in your mouth. The frustration makes tears bloom in your eyes, for real this time.
Joe doesn’t ask any more questions. Doesn’t make you try to explain yourself. He knows.
‘Can’t sleep, darlin’?’
Whether it’s the way he knows straight away what’s wrong or it’s the nickname that always slices through any emotion you’re feeling, your face crumples in a way that shatters his heart.
You shake your head, completely unable to form words. A tear escapes your eye and winds its way down your cheek.
That’s enough for Joe. It’s more than enough.
‘Oh baby, c’mere,’ he murmurs softly.
Joe knows by now when you need touch and when you need space. When you need space, your body language closes up in a way that’s imperceivable to anyone else, but clear as day to Joe. Your shoulders will hunch to your ears, whole body tense. You’ll avoid eye contact. Sometimes you’ll even put a hand out to stop him from coming close, but that’s rare.
This time, though, he knows what you need. He knows you need him close, knows you need to feel his arms around you to bring you back to the room.
So he shifts onto his back and opens his arms, leaving them open for you to all but collapse into him. You breathe out a sigh of relief the second he folds them around you, one hand at the back of your head to keep it from tipping back, the other rubbing slow, gentle strokes up and down from your shoulder blades down to the small of your back.
The feeling of his palm, warm and large, over your shirt is enough to slowly stem the flow of thoughts from pin-balling around your brain.
One of the many things you love most about Joe is the way he never makes you feel like you have to explain yourself.
If you need quiet, he gives you quiet. If you need space, he’ll let you come to him when you’re ready. If you don’t want to be perceived, he’s never once made you feel guilty for walking around the house with your headphones in like the love of his life has taken the form of a friendly, silent ghost.
This is one of those moments where he just knows what to do without asking you what you need. The room stays dark, because he knows that light can be too much when you’re already nearly at sensory capacity. His breathing stays soft and regular, because he knows that you match your breathing to his, often without even realising you’re doing it. The hand at your back stays rubbing soothing circles into your shirt, not sliding under the shirt because he knows, too, that skin on skin contact can sometimes make things worse.
Already, your breathing is slowing. Already, your mind is quietening.
But still, there’s guilt. Guilt for waking him up and disturbing his much-needed recovery and rest. Guilt for being too much. Guilt for being a distraction.
‘Sorry,’ you mumble huskily, voice hoarse from lack of use.
Joe turns his head to look at you but you’re too ashamed to look up at him. Eye contact is another thing he knows you struggle with. He doesn’t make you look up at him if you can’t handle it.
‘For what, baby?’
You shift slightly against him, face burrowing further into his shirt.
‘Woke you up. Need your sleep.’
Something in Joe’s heart cracks a little at your words. He knows how much you struggle with sleep. He also knows it’s not something you can control.
He takes a few seconds to think through his words, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he wants to say it right.
Eventually, his chest rises with an exhale, then he slowly lets the breath go. You follow his lead.
‘You didn’t wake me up, sweetheart,’ he says quietly through the kiss he presses to your forehead. ‘I woke up because I felt you weren’t asleep next to me. And then I found you ruminating and disappearing into your brain.’
The snort breaks through your nose before you can stop it.
‘Still awake, though. When you should be asleep.’
He squeezes you closer to him, just slightly, not overwhelmingly tight, just enough that he can pull you back to him.
‘That wasn’t you doing it to me, though, honey. I woke up because the person I love is awake in the middle of the night, having a loud brain moment, and I don’t want you to be alone through that. That’s all.’
That’s all.
Two words that he says so simply without realising the impact they have on you.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Like waking up for you makes as much sense as throwing a ball.
Like you’re not the burden you’ve managed to convince yourself you are.
You can’t quite find the energy or the words to respond to that. You just sigh into him and rest your arm across his stomach.
The emotion still bubbles beneath the surface.
His fingers thread carefully through your hair. They don’t twirl, they don’t pull, just subtle little strokes through your hair to keep you with him.
You’re still not quite settled though. He can feel it in the way your body is still holding onto the last little morsel of tension.
So he talks. Low, barely more than a whisper.
‘You’re in bed, in our home. You’re safe with me. It’s dark. Temperature is set to sixty-six. Alarm is set for eight tomorrow morning. Nothing can get you here. You can let your brain rest.’
Another sigh leaves you, but this time it’s heavier. Beneath you, Joe can feel your body slowly relaxing.
In his head, he goes through a few options of what to continue talking about.
Space.
Dinosaurs.
Fossils.
The Spider-Man film you’re both excited to see.
Too intense. Too charged. He needs something low-stakes, monotonous and boring to help lull you to sleep.
The answer comes to him so slowly that it almost makes him laugh when it occurs to him, then he remembers that you’re using him as a pillow, so he just smiles to himself.
‘Welcome to Football One-Oh-One. My name is Joe, and I will be your teacher for tonight.’
It takes a second longer than it should for you to process what he’s said, but when you do, you finally look up at him. Even in the dark, his eyes are bright, mouth curled into a small little smile that would be smug in any other situation, but here, it’s just from how much he loves you.
‘Football One-Oh-One?’
‘Just trust me, baby.’
You do trust him. More than anyone in your life. He’s the safest person you’ve ever loved, so you let your head flop back down onto him. His hand resumes its track up and down your back, palm still warm through your shirt.
‘So an NFL game is split into four quarters. Each quarter lasts fifteen minutes. First half of the game is the first and second quarter, then there’s a twelve minute break called half-time, then—’
You twist your head up to look at him again, eyes endearingly wide in the way they always do when your brain is still awake enough to hook onto something.
‘Why’s it twelve minutes?’
There’s a beat of silence, in which Joe blinks down at you.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Opens it again.
Of course you focus on this fact. Not the quarters, not the offence or the defence. Of course the thing your magical brain latches onto is the length of half-time.
‘I don’t… I don’t actually know.’
You frown slightly, making his chest warm with affection.
‘You play professional football. You’re the quarterback. I feel like you should know this.’
Joe sighs. There’s no way to stop the fond little smile that breaks his handsome face open, though.
‘I’ll run it past coach next time I’m at the facility.’ You shrug, then rest your head back on him like nothing happened. ‘Anyway, first half is first and second quarter, then we have half-time, and then the third and fourth quarters. If the score is even at the end of the fourth quarter, we go into overtime so we know who the winner is.’
Joe continues talking about the timing of the game and how each coach has three timeouts per half. They can use this to adjust strategy and give players a rest.
His voice rumbles through his chest below your cheek. He talks in that quietly animated way he always does when he gets to talk about the sport he loves, but it never gets loud. It’s all low timbre, kept in a similar cadence to lull you to sleep.
During a break in the lesson, he looks down at you and smiles when he sees the stress ebbing out of your face. The lines in your forehead are smoothing.
He keeps going.
‘Each team has a roster of fifty-three men during the regular season, but only eleven players from each team are on the field at one time. Each team has three units, there’s the offence, led by the quarterback—’
‘That’s you,’ you interject sleepily.
He kisses the top of your head and has to physically rein in the smile on his face from getting too big.
‘Yeah, baby, that’s me. Offence is made up of wide receivers like Ja’Marr and Tee, tight ends, running backs and the offensive linemen, the O-line. Those are the big guys that stop me from getting sacked.’
‘Like Orlando?’
‘Exactly like Orlando, he’s our left tackle.’
‘I like Orlando.’ You’re so tired that the words slur together. ‘He’s gentle.’
Joe’s heart swells. You’ve always been especially close to Orlando, the left tackle’s gentle personality similar to Joe’s. You love Ja’Marr and Tee, you always get along with all the team, but the bond you share with Orlando is special. He’s another of your safe people.
‘Yeah,’ he murmurs into your hair. ‘He’s cool.’
Sensing that you’re on the cusp of sleep, Joe lowers his voice even more so that it’s barely more than a rumble through his chest.
He drifts from touchdowns to field goals, downs to turnovers and various different penalties.
Then, because he knows how much you worry about him getting tackled, the lesson turns to his protection.
‘There’s a rule called the roughing the passer call. It’s basically where a defender hits the quarterback late, too low or too high, sometimes with unnecessary force. It can be that I get hit after I’ve thrown the ball, or I get hit in the head or the neck, like that game against the Steelers a couple years ago and I went down, had to get my neck checked out.’
He feels you tense up again beside him, hardly more than a hunch of the shoulders, but he still feels it. His hand pauses on its track up and down your back, then resumes.
‘I hated that,’ you whisper. His arms squeeze you again. Your pride in him has never been in question, but he also knows how nervous you get when it comes to game day.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ he murmurs back. ‘Was all good, though. That’s what the rule is there for. To keep me safe and to let me do my job.’ Joe tilts his head towards you and presses the briefest of kisses to your hairline.
His lips are soft against your skin. The feeling of it makes you nuzzle closer to him. When he looks down at you, your eyes are closed, your mouth is slightly parted and your breathing is slow and even.
‘But the only thing you need to focus on right now is sleep. I’m here. You’re safe. My job is to keep you safe. I’ll keep talking football to you for as long as it takes.’
And he does.
His cadence and how it keeps the defence guessing. He breathes out a laugh as he remembers times he got a player to jump offside.
‘… and sometimes I draw it out or speed it up. Maybe I’ll fake the snap count just to see if they flinch. All it is is timing and rhythm. If we can get a free five yards in a moment we really need it, we’ll take it. Absolutely, we will.’
All the while, his hand is moving up and down your back. Still keeping that same rhythm.
‘You’ve probably heard me use audibles, or codewords on the field. “Kill kill” means we’re switching to the backup play, I’ll wave my hands around my helmet and make sure all the guys are on the same page before the snap. “Alert, alert!”, pretty similar, we’re switching to an alternative play. It’s one of my favourite things about the job. I’m reading the defence and solving a puzzle in, like, three seconds. We all need to make sure we’re moving as one unit, and…’
He looks down again, and this time, you’re gone. Your face is completely slack with sleep, body warm against him without a care in the world. Joe smiles, pleased that you’re finally getting the rest you need, and shifts gently to look at the clock on the bedside table.
1:04am
‘There’s my girl,’ he whispers to the room, still smiling. ‘There we go. Guess we found out what helps you sleep, huh?’ The hand on your back slows, then moves to brush your cheek, fingertips barely grazing the skin so you don’t wake.
For a few minutes, Joe just lies there with you in his arms. He doesn’t move more than his hand that comes back to your shoulder blades, not rubbing this time, just his palm bracing your back to keep you flush against him. Your hand flexes against him in your sleep to make a fist in his shirt.
‘Hey, I’m right here, baby,’ he soothes quietly. ‘Just sleep. You’re safe with me. I’ve got you.’
Joe keeps his breathing deep and slow. His arms stay holding you close to him, safe from the demands of a world that isn’t always built for your brain but one that you belong to more than anyone else he knows.
Only when he’s sure that you’re safely asleep, only when your hand loosens its grip on his shirt with your breath soft against his chest, does he finally let his eyes drift shut.
In the quiet peace of the bedroom that night, one quarterback holds his girlfriend against him as they sleep, safe with him, just like she always will be.
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added!): @cixrosie @vroomvroombtch @mrs-delaney @cozygirljay @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @heavyhitterheaux @neyessibff @honeydippedfiction @alertbooty @basicash @hallecarey1 @megsinnerthoughts @junovee @snoopyhughes @britt217 @emeraldgold23 @fallinlovewithurlove @supermansballlicker3 @jspit9 @prissyimagines @justtheplainoldme @imperfect-paragon @amelijamorozova @xoxonobodyhome @slutfordpr @cartiershiesty @jb9posting @burrowsgem
Finding love was not on your mind when Joe Burrow out of all people walked into the emergency room where you worked. Not even knowing who he was, he swept you off your feet and soon brought you into his world to experience it right alongside him.
Trying to navigate him being in the spotlight and fitting into his lifestyle along with the new relationship has you wondering if it was all worth it, and you quickly find out that it is.
Summary: A year into dating Joe, he stars in a Netflix show featuring his life during the NFL season and all it entails.
Word Count: 8K
Author’s Note: First pre marriage and kids fic for Architect and Joe. Might have to make it more of a thing. Thank you to the anon who suggested this.
Peyton Manning had crazy pull. Or at least, he was some secret expert negotiator for Joe to agree to do this. The relationship between Joe and Peyton had grown in the last few years, enough that Joe allowed his life to be put on screen for Peyton’s show. He’d brought up the fact that he was going to participate in the series a few months ago, on his terms, with the ability to have final say in everything that was actually shown.
You expected nothing less.
“Sure you’re okay with this?” His thumbs grazed your shoulder blades as he looked into your eyes for any signs of hesitation. He knew this was a big ask. “You can always say no, you’ve got the filming schedule. I can just have my parents in it and I’ll see you when I’m not filming.”
“No way, I’m ready for my close up. Can’t wait to have cameras following us around,” you joked and he scoffed, even though the laugh gave him away.
“Alright Superstar, slow down.”
You tilted your head, giving him a confused look. “I need to slow down? You’re Hard Knocks on HBO and Quarterback for Netflix. Multiple streaming platforms. That’s greedy.”
He shrugs, biting back another laugh. “Technically the HBO thing is AFC North wide. This? Yeah, this is all me.” That earned him another pointed look. “With a cameo appearance from the people that keep me sane, who I love. Very much.”
“Nice save, QB1.”
Episode One: New Beginnings
“Camera’s gonna be on the entire time but you’ll get used to that after a few days,” the head producer Allen reassured you, “if you need to ‘cut’ or you just need a break? Let us know. We work for you.”
You nodded, watching the crew get set up as Joe brushes past you to get to the piano. “This is how we’re starting this thing off? You being Beethoven? It’s like you’re doing this ‘Internet’s Boyfriend’ thing on purpose.”
“I’m just living my life. Giving people content is a…bonus? Or maybe a consequence? I’m not really sure.”
That first day was extremely casual mostly about his career up to this point, being the first pick coming off his historic, championship season and going back home to Ohio. The fight to get back to the big game after being three damn points away from the Lombardi his second year. In that time, he’d successfully cemented himself as one of the premiere young gunslingers in the league. Then the wrist injury last season, one that no quarterback had ever suffered in history, he saw his career flash before his eyes. Just for a moment, then there was a plan and a surgery. And rehab, which he’d gotten unfortunately good at, and in that stubborn Joe way, he wanted to pick up right where he left off.
But before unpacking all of that, he went back to before last season started, in April.
“I have a hard time connecting with people sometimes,” Joe explains, sitting on at the piano bench. “This relationship’s been the fastest I’ve ever connected with someone and I think that means a lot. People that are close to me know where they stand and the last year she’s been a really steady source of happiness in my life. She knows how I feel about her,” he says with a shy smile, messing with the keys.
You sat in the living room with a different crew, ready to tell your side of the story. “We met when I was working on a series of elementary school renovations. Libraries, lunch rooms, gyms. It was honestly one of the best projects I’ve ever been a part of, my first one as lead, and the Joe Burrow Foundation board members actually came to see one of the renovations in person. Joe showed up unannounced with his parents and—yeah. I guess now we’re here,” you told them with a laugh. “Last season was my rookie season as a WAG and I pretty much experienced everything you possibly can in your first year. Going into year 2, I feel ready and I’m excited to see him do what he does best.”
“What do you think drew you guys to each other?” A producer asks.
“We’re both perfectionists, I think that’s one of the first things we really bonded over. Joe loves his job and I love mine and I think we both relate to each other in a weird way about pressure and wanting to be at your best all the time, obviously to different scales.”
“Nobody dies if I’m bad at my job,” Joe cuts in, walking into the living room. “If an architect,” he nods in her direction, “fucks up, it could be really bad for a lot of people.”
“And if I suck at my job, it might be on the news sure, but it probably won’t go viral and my mistakes won’t be replayed on ESPN for the next 2-5 business weeks.” You counter.
He sits down next to you on the couch, smirking against his will, “touché.”
The season’s expectations were brought down to a semi-crushing reality with a very underwhelming performance by the team in the season opening loss to the Patriots. Analysts tried not to be demeaning about the talent on New England’s roster, but several of them across the country, across the league thought Cincinnati would sleepwalk their way into a 1-0 start when it was in fact…the opposite. While you were at work the next day, Joe filmed with his parents at his house, going through his upbringing, his mom Robin’s beautiful ability to do everything for him out of love of course. It was still funny to hear about how spoiled he was growing up while his dad was gone, either coaching or recruiting while he watched countless hours of The Biggest Loser with his mom.
“It’s my money but I couldn’t tell you the weekly schedule, when the grass is cut or really any of that stuff.”
A man sighs in the background, sleeves rolled up on his beefy arms revealing a full sleeve on his left arm. “Joe doesn’t even know where his Amazon packages are in the house most of the time.”
“Morgan’s kidding,” Joe walks over to the kitchen and leans over to the counter with his iPad as Morgan sat down for his interview.
“Uh let’s see,” he ran a tattooed hand over his jaw. “I met Joe in early ’21. He was rehabbing in LA and I was working with Andrew Whitworth at the time, shout out to Big Whit. And I was making dinner for all of them one night and we started talking about how diet helps recovery, anti-inflammatory foods to help with his knee swelling and feeling lighter as he upped his rehab. We just became really close. Before the season started a few months later he reached out, asking if I’d ever thought about living in Ohio. Moved out to Cincy the next week, been his chef ever since.” He smiles, “this man is probably one of the most driven people in the world, he’s got a one track mind and it’s really been the honor of my life to be a small part of his life and this insane journey. Me and Ivy.”
An older woman walks camera crews to an office, her own tablet and a phone in hand. “I’m Ivy. I keep this place afloat. Joe’s joke earlier about not knowing how the washer and dryer works wasn’t a joke and it’s my job to make sure he doesn’t ever need to find out how anything works.”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you when they change the air filters, or what those even look like. No clue what I’m having for dinner, I just know it’ll be ready when I need it.” Joe says with a laugh in his aside. “Ivy and Morgan are super clutch in the off the field department.”
“Sundays are the reset days, if it’s a home game we’ll go through laundry after he leaves. First thing Sunday morning if the team’s away. Everything is washed, dried and put away, yes his closet is color coded for those who are wondering. And dry cleaning is a whole separate process.” Ivy explains, listing things off without missing a beat. Everyone could tell she’d done this a few times. “Mondays are lawn care, if anything outside the house needs fixing, I have people for that. Tuesdays are off days so we try to keep things quiet for him if he’s gonna be in the house. Wednesdays, maintenance cleans, the cleaning crew is in and out pretty quickly, Thursdays are indoor fixes, if needed. Really anything he needs around here goes through me, staff payroll. Whatever he needs, I handle it, most of the time before he even realizes it’s a problem. His job is to be at his best on Sunday, our jobs are to keep it that way.”
Episode Two: Damn Near Perfect
“What are your thoughts on his fashion choices? And the hair?”
You looked at Joe, who just kept looking through the clothes his stylist Kyle had just left for him. All of the things he said yes to now had to be put away, which was probably to end up being a two person job. “When he first mentioned wanting to buzz off his hair I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. He came to my house bald one day. Then he went home for a wedding and we talked that weekend and he said he wanted frosted tips, the natural way. So he got it bleached and that took a really long time getting used to but his hair grows back really fast. The way it is now is honestly great. Works for him.”
“My dad was pissed.” Joe notes, reminiscing fondly about his dad’s reaction.
“He was. He texted me and asked if I was seriously letting you dye it. I said, ‘let him?’ we must not be talking about the same person. Joe isn’t exactly someone who likes to be told what to do, he’s a contrarian. If anything, I would’ve had more luck telling him he should dye it rather than trying to discourage him.”
“And the clothes?” The interviewer asks.
“The clothes are so fun. I love that he gets to express himself through his clothing and that—”
“You get to borrow stuff?”
“Well obviously that’s my favorite part, rummaging through your closet full of designer. Are you kidding? What’s the point of dating a guy if you can’t steal his clothes?”
You and Joe are followed upstairs to one of the guest closets where he lets you give them a tour. “This is all the stuff I’ve accumulated in the last year in terms of Bengals gear. People send me free stuff, exclusive retro bomber jackets, crewneck sweatshirts, beanies, all that stuff and it’s super nice when I’m picking out what to wear to games because some people are ready for a fashion show every week, whether it’s 100 degrees or 20.” Your boyfriend barely reacts, moving through the closet. “Joe got me these orange Cartier glasses, very on theme, very on brand for him.”
Fans may remember Burrow’s viral 2022 look before the AFC Championship game where they would defeat the Kansas City Chiefs 27-24 in overtime to punch their ticket to the Super Bowl. His post after that game got over 1 million likes on Instagram and put him on the map as one of the faces of NFL fashion.
“I usually try to go for something cute but not too crazy out there. I don’t wanna show up in bright orange boots and then the team doesn’t play well, I’d feel ridiculous.”
The Bengals start the season 0-3, admittedly they’ve been off to these less than ideal starts the last few years but alarm bells are going off and narratives are being spun. Joe’s mantra remains that there are 14 games left, anything could happen. The weird thing about going from an average fan to being in a relationship with the face of the franchise is having to pretend like the questions and the doubt aren’t frustrating. People in the office asking about Joe’s motivation, is he going to start being more vocal, asking her to tell him to start yelling at his teammates more and light a fire in their asses.
“I don’t think that they mean any harm, fans are the most fun part about the game sometimes. But they also forget, and I used to be guilty of this too, that these are real people with real lives.” You tell the crew. “They see their teammates more than they see their families during the season and become an extension of each other’s families. Case in point? Joe and Ja’Marr.”
You were on your way into the house while the receiver and his parents were on their way out. “See you guys on Sunday?”
“Absolutely, we’re ready to watch them pluck every feather on that Raven,” Ja’Marr’s dad says, doing the motions, “one by one.”
His mom shakes her head, and her husband engages in one more passionate conversation with Joe’s dad about the defense. Joe and Ja’Marr soulmated so hard their dads had the same name. “Are you bringing those things you brought to the last tailgate? The beachy drinks.”
“The wine coolers,” Robin smiles, eyes bright at the thought of the three of you tipsy in the parking lot in the primetime loss against the Commanders last week. It was a fun night, until it wasn’t. “Seagram’s, right?”
You nodded. “Yes miss Toleah, I will be there. With my tropical Seagram’s.”
She gave you a mischievous look and a warm hug on her way out, looping her arm through Robin’s. “I like her,” she whispers when she’s out of earshot, “a lot.”
“I love her,” Robin echoes, patting the woman’s arm.
That Sunday began with Passionfruit Mango Seagram’s Escapes in the parking lot and optimism that Cincinnati could get its season back on track against a familiar AFC North rival. Instead, the Bengals fell to Baltimore in overtime despite one of the best performances of Burrow’s career. He threw for 392 yards and five touchdowns, repeatedly finding Ja’Marr Chase, who finished with 10 catches for 193 yards and two scores. Cincinnati was now 1-4, with a trip to New York looming in what already felt like a must-win game.
Episode Three: Beautiful Minds
“You tried to leave the place with a fossil?” The guilty party didn’t respond, just sipped his water.
“They said no.”
“And if they hadn’t?”
“I’d put up an exhibit in the guest house. Maybe keep one in my office, that’d be pretty fucking sick.”
You placed both hands on his shoulders as he sat on a stool in the kitchen. “You know what would be really sick? A Sunday night win in New York,” you poked his nose.
MetLife Stadium- Week 6
First possession, Bengals ball, 3rd and 18. Burrow gets the snap and takes off, a defender dives at his feet and misses him entirely.
“No way,” Robin gasps. You’re stunned into silence, clinging onto her like both of your lives depend on it. He keeps running, faster than you’ve ever seen him move.
“He’s taking it all the way,” Jimmy laughs, putting his hands together, urging his son along like he’s on the field right next to him. The three of you are screaming your heads off with the rest of the stadium as Joe dives for the pylon and the referee signals touchdown. “Well how bout that?” He held up his hand and high fived Robin, then you, then everyone sitting around you in your row and his.
You noticed Robin a little teary eyed. “Please don’t cry, you’re gonna make me cry.”
“This just never gets old,” she cry laughs. “Getting to see him live out his dreams every Sunday. Seeing people wearing his jersey. It’s just the coolest thing ever. Especially after everything he’s been through, he’s a tough one.”
“The toughest,” Jimmy mutters and you catch him clearing his throat. He then teased Joe over the phone that next week about how he was so close, but not close enough to 20mph. He rolled his eyes and hugged you after you called him “sneaky athletic.”
A camera crew captures you and Joe in his office on an off day, giving himself a brain break after hours of film on the Cleveland Browns as you gave him a rundown of your plans for the drive. “Jaz and I are getting there Saturday. We’ll probably walk around and explore for a little bit. Either the market or a museum, maybe grab dinner at Dante?” Joe nods, scrolling through his phone for a few seconds.
“Dante is reserved for two, Saturday at 7:30. I texted Carson.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. If you’re gonna be in Cleveland, you gotta do it right.”
An interviewer, intrigued, poses a question that’s been weighing on the entire production team’s minds. “Do you go to every game?”
Sharing a glance with your boyfriend, you sigh, sinking into the loveseat. “I didn’t last year, with work. The schedule was tight and we were still kind of keeping it to ourselves. When you make a relationship public, that welcomes opinions and doubts and conversations we both wanted to make sure we were ready for. So I couldn’t exactly tell my boss I was ditching a work conference because I’m dating his team’s starting quarterback.” The room laughed, Joe just shook his head. “But then the Baltimore game happened and I was here in Cincy. I watched the replay more times than I’ll ever admit, convincing myself that seeing it would help me figure out how bad it was and how much pain he was in before he even got to the locker room. When they showed the sideline clip of him trying to throw and the ball slipping out of his hands and I started looking for flights to Baltimore. Waiting for him to get his phone back, to talk to him and get some hint of what was happening—absolutely sucked. It was awful. So I figured out a hybrid schedule that works, a lot of time in the office, some remote so I can have traveling flexibility because being there for him and with him is super important.”
“Don’t get me wrong on this next part because I do want the team to win and be successful. But I care more about him being okay than getting the win. I let him agonize over that.”
Joe chuckles, “injuries do suck but they’re a part of football. Can’t exactly protect me from that whether you’re in the building or not.”
“I know. But it’s better for my heart health if I can see you in person and make sure you’re okay. Because I know you like to downplay things, especially when you’re hurting.”
He rubs the back of his neck, “depends on how I’m feeling and who’s asking.”
“Exactly what I’m talking about. And—“ your phone vibrates and you read the message. “Um…Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“Your phone was literally just in your hand, you didn’t see Ivy’s texts? She wants to know if you got the handheld massage guns and brought them upstairs.”
He nods to the back shelf where the two boxes are resting next to each other, delighted by the fact that Ivy’s probably been running around downstairs for an hour trying to find them for him.
“See, this is what it’s like to be a part of his ecosystem. We have to text each other sometimes to get answers from him while he’s in his own world.”
“I was gonna respond to her. But I forgot, there were other things on my mind.”
“Of course. Perks of the job.”
The play clock is unforgiving. The Eagles even less so. A 17-37 loss at home during white out week left the Bengals at the halfway point of the season looking for answers. And a way to bounce back.
“I was deciding between a cherry blossom bonsai tree and this.” You explained, reading the sheet. “Glad I chose the flower bouquet. I know he’d like them both because he loves flowers but this one is bigger and we can just leave it here when we’re done.”
Joe had all the different bags laid out on the table between you. The dining room had become Lego headquarters on his off day where you’d decided the perfect way to squeeze in some quality time was to take on this project together. After your last meeting, you headed out of the office and changed when you got to his house, dedicating the afternoon to building a flower bouquet together, a set that contained over 600 pieces. Neither of you spoke for the first 10-15 minutes, you worked on the waterlily, he took on the sunflowers, eventually moving his pile, stem pieces and all, to your side of the table so you could work side by side.
“Sorry,” he murmured when he reached over you to grab another bag to work on something new.
It was a quiet, calming activity, handing each other essential pieces, forgetting about your phones for a few hours only focused on botanicals, legs touching. The rest of the world, and the cameras recording the entire thing, ceased to exist. All that mattered, the only thing on his mind, was you and the wildflowers. And what vase to put this masterpiece in when you were done.
Episode Four: Now or Never
Joe is a creature of habit who tries really hard to maintain his normal routine, even though the entire country is trying to convince him that the franchise needs a facelift. Instead of consulting with the most respected plastic surgery center within 100 miles, he stood at the front of the movie room with the remote in hand. He looked like mayor, this nauseating amount of excitement you’d only get from a dictator forcing his citizens to participate in a town hall against their will.
“Pop quiz,” he rubs his hands together. “You ready?”
“Go for it, do your worst. I know what I’m doing.”
He raised his eyebrows, “cocky?”
“Confident.” You corrected.
“I have the play sheet, right here,” he pointed to his forearm, “I’ll say the first two words. Let’s see if you can finish the rest.”
“I’m ready.”
Joe smirks, looking through the sheet, undoubtedly looking for the longest, most confusing, play. “Okay. First two words: duke, tab.”
You tapped your fingers against your thigh, repeating “duke, tab, duke, tab” over and over. “Got it. Duke, left, tab, x fly, 2 jet chip—X short Costco,” you paused. Then snapped your fingers, pointing at him, “race.”
The man isn’t singing your praises just yet, honestly you’re not sure that’s really his M.O. “Is this a red zone top out or on the turbo?”
“On the turbo,” you don’t hesitate.
He wants to kiss you. And he would have if you were actually alone. But you weren’t. He settles for a high-five and surprises everyone in the room when the simple high-five turns into a full fledged secret handshake.
“Before anyone asks,” you spoke up after your pop quiz was over, “the handshake was my idea, with very limited protests from the other party.” That made Joe and everyone else laugh. “I told him if Ja’Marr had a secret handshake, I should get one too.”
“It’s only fair,” Joe shrugged and gave your shoulder a squeeze on his way upstairs.
“You nailed that quiz,” someone off camera notes. “Do you guys do that a lot?”
“Not always in that way,” you chuckled. “But yeah. Season’s long and I wanted to spend time with him in a way that was meaningful, meet him halfway, if that makes sense? Watching football and understanding football are very different. And seeing him watch film and listening to him break it down, seeing the game the way he does, made me want to see it through his eyes and it honestly made watching the games even more fun.”
“Okay so, one more quiz question for you. What’s the difference between red zone top up and on the turbo?”
“Glad you asked. Red zone top out is a red zone passing concept designed specifically inside the 20 and the top out just means the receiver at the top of the formation is running an out breaking route to the sideline. Quarterback would still have to go through his progressions but he has the top receiver on the out route, another option would be taking the inside route whether that’s a slant, a spot or a pivot route. Or a checkdown to the running back.” You explained. “On the turbo is an up tempo play, sometimes no huddle so the snap is faster, usually a go route for Ja’Marr if he has a one on one, or even a double team because he’s super fast and can take pretty much any corner in a foot race, especially if he has the ball.”
The room was pretty quiet after your football tangent. “Pretty impressive.”
“I’ve had a pretty good teacher,” you tried to hide the smile taking over your face but you knew everyone saw. What you didn’t know, was that said teacher had heard the entire thing, looking unbelievably proud.
“How similar is football to architecture?”
“Pretty fucking similar,” he laughs, in his aside. “Everything is about recognizing patterns whether that’s formations or spatial symmetry. As much as she says she’s learned from me, I’ve learned a lot about her world and her job too. What she does, it’s pretty dang cool. So when she’s not memorizing the playbook, she teaches me about making 3-D models online. And the physical models too. Those are a little more elaborate than Lego sets. She indulges me anyway.”
M&T Stadium - Week 10
Another photo finish to add to the lore of the rivalry. And another loss.
With two minutes left in the game, Burrow marched the Bengals down the field, scoring a go ahead touchdown to Ja’Marr Chase on 3rd and 3. Down 34-35, the Bengals opted to go for a two-point conversion for the win instead of an extra point to go for the tie. The two-point conversion was unsuccessful, the ball slightly out of reach for Tanner Hudson, leading to a one point victory for the Ravens. Burrow and Cincinnati walked gingerly off the field after a 3 touchdown, 264 receiving yard game from Chase and a 428 yard and 4 touchdown performance from their quarterback.
“That back Tampa two in the two minute drill. Stunning throw,” you said, eyes glued to the screen the next morning as game highlights played in the background. Joe was half asleep still, which was enough of a sign that he was really sore. You started quietly counting all the bruises you could see on his arms and legs. Some looked old, making their mark more than a week ago, but he bruised so easily, like a peach, in his own words, but yesterday he’d taken quite the beating. And that was putting it gently.
“Does this one hurt? It’s really…purple.”
“There’s one on my hip too. Joey’s gonna kick my ass tomorrow,” he sighed.
“I’ll grab the massage guns, Ivy charged them last night.” He didn’t say anything but nodded in appreciation from his spot on the couch, even quieter and more restrained. Another tell-tale sign he did not want to discuss how he was feeling. That would be a conversation for a different day.
That day never came.
The conversation looming over you and everyone you knew consisted of this unfortunate fact. The team was 4-8 after losing to the Steelers. In their three game losing streak? He’d thrown 21TDs and only 3 interceptions at a 68% completion rate, averaging 308 yards a game. This was hands down his best individual season of his career. He was playing out of his mind but they couldn’t buy a win. There were no answers and they’d be in a fight to claw themselves into the last playoff spot in the AFC.
“Crazier things have happened.” You told Joe’s dad, looking at the playoff graphic setting up the perfect scenario to allow the Bengals to get in.
Episode Five: Stumbling Blocks
“Like…from the Dark Knight? Why did Jeff from the finance department at my job find out before me?” You tried to sound serious but the news and price were so absurd you had to just laugh.
You couldn’t even fathom the thought of $3 million let alone spending it without shedding a few tears. Joe was smiling from ear to ear talking about it, like a kid in a candy store. Or a kid that was getting to live out his dreams of getting to be Batman. According to him, Cincinnati was Gotham in this scenario and they were in desperate need of a savior.
“I do hate the Cowboys,” you confessed and Joe giggled in the background, having just walked in from a lengthy film session at the facility. “The whole ‘America’s Team’ thing is annoying. They do not represent America, they represent delusion. And it’s annoying, so I cannot wait for the Bengals to go to AT&T and beat their ass in primetime. That’d be such a good birthday gift for him too.”
“The best,” he confirmed. “And we need this one. Pretty badly.” Joe walked up the stairs, minutes later he calls your phone instead of walking back down the stairs. “Have you seen my chapstick?”
“Pretty sure its on your nightstand.”
You hear him moving around upstairs. “Found it, thanks.” He hangs up before you can say another word and you and the camera crew erupt into laughter.
Robin sent you the Simpsons drawing of Joe. It was…interesting to say the least. The hair was perfect but everything else left a lot more to be desired. It was still a fun concept.
“Look at them,” you pulled out the binoculars to get a closer look at the postgame shenanigans after the win and you and Robin and Jimmy laughed as the donuts were brought out.
“You can almost feel their sighs of relief right now. This win just gave them a little life.” Jimmy looked on, having that playoff graphic pretty much burned into his brain.
“He’s gonna have a better day tomorrow,” his mom smiled. “They earned this one.”
The walk down to the visitors barricade to wait for the team by their bus and Joe texted. His mom joked that they’d be able to convince him to participate in a birthday dinner tomorrow now that they won. You looked at the notification and felt a weird sense of urgency to see what the text said. He knew you’d be seeing him in less than 30 minutes, what was the rush?
Something’s happened. Police is waiting at the house.
“You get the monkey off your back so to speak and then this happens. It’s one thing after another.” Joe says, a frustrated edge to his tone.
Episode 6: Headspace
Filming felt weird, ever since. These cameras, on top of the news vans outside, and the FBI asking questions. Luckily everything that was taken of his was insured but still. All of this happening in the midst of him filming a show about how abnormal his life was felt a little too on the nose. And it felt even more awkward being asked about how this was effecting you, considering you weren’t the one whose privacy was invaded in the most inhumane way. You were affected by association but you didn’t want to come across as the victim. The last thing you needed was a viral Twitter moment about how you were an insufferable narcissist, forcing you to choose your words very carefully.
“Being a private citizen with a public figure is sometimes uncomfortable. Even more so now everyone knows exactly where he lives. I just know that he tries really hard to balance the fame and his personal life. And this is a really unfortunate thing to have to have to add to his plate.”
Even with this abnormal life, the most abnormal thing about Joe is his play. He was undoubtedly the best quarterback in the league, red hot week after week. And it didn’t stop in Nashville against the Titans.
The biggest story of the game wasn’t the win, two in a row if anyone was wondering, not Joe’s continued quest on leading the league in passing touchdowns, adding three more on the day. It was his viral video, an animated exchange on his part, with head coach Zac Taylor. One of Joe’s best qualities was his patience and his even-keeled nature, never too high, never too low. It was unexpected, but warranted. Not that you mentioned any of that to him when you hugged after the game.
You were focused on the most important part. “Franchise record? Not bad, 9.” Forty-three passing touchdowns was nothing short of amazing and you beamed at him as he held you against his side, not letting go until he had to, to get on the bus. “Love you,” he said so quietly you almost thought it was in your head. He’d said it countless times, but knowing he felt comfortable enough to say it on camera nearly made you wanna cry but you saved it for the flight home. The last few days had been such an emotional rollercoaster that you hadn’t even allowed yourself a minute to think about how insane it all was. And those two words brought you back to Earth, gently. Joe had a knack for doing that, when you least expected it, he grounded you, in the midst of mayhem and the spotlight and police reports, he was a constant no matter what. That’s what made him so great. You just hoped you were doing the same thing for him.
“What time are you meeting them?” Joe stood in his living room, holding his phone.
“I’m leaving in like 10 minutes. Why? You can’t possibly be bored, the guys are coming soon, aren’t they?” You asked, on speaker.
He knew you couldn’t see him smiling, or rolling his eyes. “Yeah but that’s not the point. You coming over here after?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Um…both?”
You laughed, keys dangling in your hands. “I’ll see what I can do for ya. You have fun with your guys and you might see me later. Not sure yet.”
While Joe spent some quality time with offensive lineman, people he called some of his favorite in the world, you hosted an event at Prim for the WAGS. One of the things you hadn’t considered when falling for Joe, is the hierarchy amongst players’ partners. Dating the starting quarterback automatically means you have to prove yourself. You get to sit in the suite that your boyfriend bought at home games instead of in the stands. His contract is the biggest and even though it’s definitely not your money, people—other girls mostly, expected you to host gatherings and bring people together. You didn’t want to seem standoffish or holier than thou and that to fall back on Joe, potentially disrupting the flow of the locker room, so you played your part. There were some girls you got along with naturally, but working full time didn’t allow the liberties of being a content creator or a person who’s identity had fully become being a football wife. Not that you were judging, of course. Tonight’s events were focused on Christmas gifts, another joy of dating a public figure is sifting and sorting through DMs, people wanting to use you to promote their products or local businesses who wanted access to Joe in some way. You’d transformed the evening in your favor, some gifts you’d purchased yourself and others were gifts, samples from business owners whose product would be on display in hopes of spreading the word.
“Tonight is half DIY shopping, half gift exchange,” you told them, joy exuding from your voice. “For the gifts, I got you guys Coach bags, they’re clear too, ideal for the stadium with the orange lining. Inside the bag you’ll see a black and white Bengal bag charm from Bottega, a gold plated necklace with your guy’s jersey number. And Told Ya Sew turned jerseys into these adorable tube tops. They’re local too, so be sure to check them out.” Watching them open their bags, the giddy energy was contagious, some of them immediately clasped the necklaces on, which was nice. “And when you’re ready there’s also an accessory station from a local jeweler and a nail artist who specializes in customized press-on sets. Maybe you were alone in this, but rings and bracelet stacks looked a lot better when your nails were done and in a pinch when you didn’t have time to book a nail appointment or you liked changing your nails every week, press-ons were the way to go.
Joe handed out his own gifts a few days later for getting his offensive linemen samurai swords, you enjoyed the night you shared themed drinks and played Santa Claus. Little did you and the rest of the league know, he had a few more tricks up his sleeve. Three days before Christmas, Joe shined with a 134.3 passer rating, no interceptions on the day definitely helped.
“Play it again,” you half demanded, head resting on Joe’s shoulder that night after the game was over and won. “How the f—you’re horizontal. In mid air.”
“I know,” he sighed. “It’s nuts. That was the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done.”
“If I had a vote,” you told the cameras after Joe had gone to bed, “he’d be MVP. Hands down, bar none. But it’s not up to me.”
Episode Seven: Final Snap
Usually, game day nerves were held in check by the tailgate. Get a good buzz going, life was perfect and you felt pretty much unstoppable by kickoff. Today, knowing that the next two games are do or die was a bit too much to handle.
“Chicken strips or pretzel?” Joe’s best friend Zacciah asks, holding out both like he’s a server. “Which one do you want?”
He knew stress eating when he saw it, only because he was about to do the same. “I’m good with either.”
“Fine.” You held out your hands. “Gimme the chicken strips.”
On top of everything else this week, Joe’s suite was full, just how he wanted it. Old teammates and his high school coach. There were also lifelong friends that had flown in for the occasion and his favorite fans, his mom and dad who never missed a game, rain or shine. Nerves quickly died down, replaced excessive cheering and a hug from Jimmy after a successful tush push with 1:21 left in the game. You faced the field, soaking in the moment with him. “Is he—did your son just griddy?”
“Is that what that’s called?”
Robin turned, blue eyes wide like he’d just said the most absurd thing she’d ever heard. “I’ve told you what that dance is called a hundred times.”
He shook his head and laughed, settling back into his seat. Joe’s friends sat a little ways away, already scrolling through twitter to look at the replays and rating Joe’s griddy on a scale from 1-10.
“That’s a solid 8,” Adam speaks up first. “Peak form, not too long, not super cringy.”
“It was pretty solid, I’ll give it him. But I’m giving him a 7.3.” Trae says, eyes back on the field. “If they get this dub then maybe I’ll give him a couple more points.”
Because the universe is a cruel and unfair place, the Broncos tied the game and sent it to overtime. In classic Bengals fashion, as dramatic as humanly possible, they made everybody wait almost the entirety of extra time. For 593 seconds, until Tee’s second catch in a row that drive, that sealed the win with a clutch touchdown catch, your heart was in your ass. A sigh of relief when the game ended didn’t even begin to convey what you all felt up there, watching them hug each other. Knowing that this same team had gone from 4-8, all but out of it by national media standards, crawled their way back to 8-8 with a real opportunity to sneak into that last playoff spot was everything.
MVP! MVP! MVP!
Paycor shook with joy, a triumphant sound that you and everyone else around you happily joined in on, pumping your fists. “MVP! MVP! MVP!”
“It’s gonna really fucking suck if they do all this, do their part, but the chips don’t fall for them to get that last spot,” Adam groans. All of you were waiting for Joe to come up to the suite, doing some math in regards to the standings. “The Dolphins need to lose. And it may honestly still come down to this Denver team too.”
“That Patriots loss really might end up biting them in the ass,” someone else adds in. “Or if they’d closed out one or both of those games against Baltimore.”
You wanted to say they had so many opportunities, so many one score games that if things had just gone their way, this conversation wouldn’t even be happening. Six games they’d lost by one score. If they’d won all of those games they’d be 14-2, likely the number one seed in the conference. But they hadn’t closed out games, not until Dallas, not until today, and all of you had to come to grips with the fact that Joe’s season could end next week, no matter how magical his play had been.
Robin and Jimmy stepped out to greet him in the hallway and you let them have their time first. He’d mentioned growing a lot closer to his dad when he decided to retire before his Heisman season at LSU, fully embracing the dad part of football, while still keeping his defensive coach hat in his back pocket. You knew it meant the world to him to know people were here to watch him play, to hang out, that he’d brought all of these people together, that they were cheering him on. But you knew a small part of him, even if he’d rather have all of his expensive teeth pulled out without pain meds than admit this out loud, wanted his dad to be proud of him. Yes, he wanted to win football games and play well, but he also wanted to hear Jimmy Burrow say “I’m proud of you.”
He walked in, jacket mostly zipped, looking exhausted, in a satisfied way. Joe handed out hugs, greeting every guest and basking in compliments on his outfit before he sat down in the corner of the room and took a bite of his peanut butter and banana sandwich. Conversation continued, questions about his decision to dance, looking forward to closing out the regular season and trying to enjoy the win tonight while also knowing there’s another dog fight in six days. Joe had seemingly caught his second wind, standing up with his bag slung over one shoulder, holding out the half eaten protein filled snack in your direction. “You want a bite?”
“I’m good baby, it’s yours. You need it after that freaking battle.”
The morning after Steelers game was quiet. The two point victory was needed to keep hope alive, all they needed now was a Chiefs win against the Broncos and a Dolphins loss or tie to the Jets. Joe’s center Ted Karras and his wife Rachel were coming over to watch the game so you got ready and headed downstairs while Joe slept in until the last possible second, showered and sat on the couch preparing himself for either outcome. Ted was admittedly one of his favorite teammates, which helped soften the blow when the Chiefs sat down their starters and the four of you watched as the Broncos kicked their teeth in. Morgan’s famous panini might have also helped but Joe just laughed, letting it sink in that the 2024 season had officially come to an end, paving the way for the offseason.
“It is what is is,” he said in a low voice. “We got ourselves in this position, sucks but we didn’t take care of business early and here we are.”
Days went by and life without football meant logging in normal work hours in the office. There’s something super close to whiplash about football season, one day you’re at a game, cheering, celebrating, laughing, bonding. The next, it’s over. You couldn’t imagine how Joe felt about it. The great thing about the offseason was that he was practically employed, which meant no more 8PM bedtimes and so many more late night drop by visits.
He knocked on your door at 9:45 one night. “Filming’s done?” You asked before saying hi or even letting him come in, giving him a big hug when he nodded. “Finally,” you held him as he closed the door after fully entering your house. Relieved to be back to normal, you leaned in to give him a kiss before you remembered. “How are you feeling? How’s the neck?” He shrugs and insists he’s fine, leaning in, unimpressed seeing you pull back. “Prove it. Turn your head.”
Joe gives you a pretty convincing glare, “seriously?”
“Just—humor me, please?”
Your lips curl into a tiny smile watching him turn his head from side to side a few times to prove his point. “There,” he deadpans. “What’s the verdict, doc? Am I gonna live?”
“Shut up,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, gently, and press a kiss to his lips. It’s soft, almost incredibly so, and his hand wraps around your waist, pulling you in close enough your bodies are pressed against each other. His lips brush over yours with a tenderness that gives you goosebumps, all over your body. And when you thought it was done he went in for more, feathery kisses on the corner of your mouth at first, then too pecks on the lips for good measure. “What was that for?”
He smiled again, kissing your cheek. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“All of this,” he began, letting out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Being here through the bullshit and the fun stuff. For being you. I love you.”
“I love you too,” you whispered back, scared that if you said it any louder you might tear up, “so much.” Somehow, you quickly recovered to ask, “if they have a premiere like they did in LA last season, are we going?”
He gave you that signature glare again, fingers drumming rapidly against your butt. You hadn’t even noticed his hand was resting there. “Absolutely fucking not.”
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
Summary - Reader has been accidentally paging Dr. Park instead of the resident on call, but he never corrected her.
*Reader has a face claim and is curvy with a brief mention of weight loss*
A/N - hi everyone!! i’m so glad you guys loved my first one of these so much and i’m so appreciative of all the kind comments <3 I had the idea for this when I accidentally paged the wrong doctor at work and he wasn’t so nice about it 😭
thank you everyone so much for scrolling all the way down! i love you all, feel free to give requests <3
summary: in which carmy falls for the sweet café owner that supplies him with endless americanos
pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader
word count: 14.4k
warning: it's a little bit of a slow burn. sorry. i'm a sucker for it and i feel like carmy is a slow burn kinda guy. 18 +, cursing, smut, p in v, oral (m. receiving), fingering, they use protection guys! i deserve a pat in the back. nothing too wild. oh, and very brief mention of suicide.
a/n: i started writing this way back in october and then it was nearly done and i abandoned it. well i finally got around to completing it tonight!
this is my first time ever writing for carmy and i tried my best writing this. i love carmy and the show but i didn’t expect it to be hard to write him as a character. i wanted to get him right so i took my time with it and didn’t rush it. hopefully you guys like my carmy. enjoy!
i think i've had this stored in my drafts for like 4 months and it's time for me to set it free.
The cigarettes were not enough anymore. No matter how many smoke breaks Carmy took, he still felt the edge on his shoulders. A fear laced with anxiety that overtook him.
After deciding that blowing through yet another wall in his restaurant was the way to go, Carmy took a break. He needed it before he used the sledgehammer to destroy the restaurant in its entirety, along with his dream.
He remembers a coffee shop only a block away from The Bear and thinks he could use a coffee right about now. Maybe the mixture of caffeine and nicotine will be able to relax his shoulders, if only for an hour.
As soon as he opens the door, the smell of ground coffee beans greets him. He looks around, taking in the cozy ambiance the decorative wood brings to the place and the splashes of warm yellow that lighten it up.
Then he sees you, and his focus shifts entirely. His eyes only see you.
"Hi, welcome to Bee Hive!" You chirp with a small smile.
Carmy freezes, forgetting why he's there in the first place. He slowly steps up to the register, where you patiently wait for him. It's just after the lunch rush, so you're in no hurry.
He finds he's acting like a teenager who has just seen a pretty girl. Only he's not a teenager, and you're more than a pretty girl.
"What can I get for you today?" You ask, not noticing the effect you've had on him. You take a sharpie out of your yellow apron, preparing to scribble down his order in a cup.
Carmy has perfected the empty on the outside but screaming on the inside face. Strangers don't tend to know he's almost always losing his shit.
"I-I don't…sorry," Carmy looks at you briefly before diverting his eyes. He apologizes in a flurry, looking for an excuse for his weird behavior, "Uh, it's my first time here. What do you recommend?"
"It's not a problem," you say softly as if to calm him, "I'm a simple girl. I love the latte, but if you're looking for something stronger, the americano is one of the favorites."
Carmy nods as you ramble about the drinks, where the coffee beans come from, and the different notes of each blend. He hangs onto every word that slips from your lips. The static in his brain clearing up for the first time in hours.
It ends too soon as you realize you're talking too much and probably overwhelmed him. You sheepishly smile at him and trail off, but he continues to stare, waiting for you to continue.
"I'll take the Americano," Carmy nods, giving you a tight-lipped smile. Although he had been hanging to every one of your words, he was too focused on the shape of your lips and the sweet tone of your voice.
"Good choice," you nod, grabbing a cup from the tray beside you, "What's your name?"
Carmy looks up, slightly alarmed, as if you've asked for his social security number. "What?" He thinks you'll be forward and ask for his number next, seemingly forgetting how coffee orders work.
"Your name? For the order?" You explain, trying to ease his worries. He's odd, but in an endearing way. You believe this is his first time here because you're confident you would've remembered him.
"Fuck, right, yeah," he nervously says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "My name's Carmen."
"Your Americano will be right out, Carmen," you tell him, capping your sharpie back up.
Carmy quickly pays and stands to the side to wait for his order. He forces himself to not look at you or in your direction as you take other customers' orders. He just knows he's made a fool of himself already. Not that it matters. Why would it matter? He's there for the coffee. Nothing else, no one else.
As he walks out of Bee Hive, he sips his coffee. His shoulders instantly drop, and his fear-induced anxiety starts to dissipate for the moment. He's unsure if the effect is because of the caffeine or the thoughts of your pretty smile.
Visiting your coffee shop becomes routine for Carmy. Whenever things at The Bear become crazy -or he starts to lose his fuckin' mind- he makes his way to Bee Hive with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
For twenty minutes, he's free of Richie's constant hounding, Sugar's struggles with the permits and scheduling, and Sydney's disappointment because the menu is still extremely underway.
Each time he's stopped by, you've been there to greet him, and each time, you've left a little heart by Carmen's name, which makes his heart race in a peculiar way. His hands would touch his chest to check if it was heartburn, but it didn't feel like that. It's not anxiety either cause he knows pretty well how that feels.
All he knows is he hasn't done anything to deserve such a gesture. He's convinced himself you draw little hearts for everyone because he's not special.
One Thursday afternoon, Carmy realizes he doesn't know your name. He looks for a name tag, but you're not wearing one on your yellow apron. He should know your name if you insist on making small talk despite his short answers.
He can't help it. He gets too in his head to answer like a normal person, so his answers come out choppy and dry.
"Alright, Carmen, your order will be right out," you say, handing his cup to one of the baristas. You always hold out and ask him what he wants to order. He has the right to change his mind anytime, but for now, he's stuck with the americano, which he drowns in sugar.
As curiosity eats at him, he gathers the courage to ask. "Thanks. Hey, uh, I've-I’ve never gotten your name…” Carmy says, cursing at himself for not formulating the question correctly. His hand comes up to grip his hair instinctually.
Your smile widens when he asks your name. The silly crush you've developed for your customer fluttering to life. It's just a crush over a stranger, nothing to write home about.
You tell him your name but follow it with "-call me Honey. Everyone knows me by that name. I'm sure if you ask my friends about me with my real name, you'll throw them for a loop."
You're rambling, hoping he doesn't think calling you by your nickname is weird. Then again, how can he judge when he has a sister people call 'Sugar' and he and his siblings also don the nickname 'Bear.'
"Honey." Carmy repeats your nickname, smiling as he finds it fitting. "In that case, call me Carmy."
"Nice to properly meet you, Carmy," you say, grinning.
Like all the days before, Carmy steps aside and waits for his coffee. He doesn't let himself continue the conversation or ask more about you even if it’s everything he wants to do.
It's rare for Carmy to be in a good mood, and whenever it happens, it doesn't tend to last. His goal of opening a restaurant in 12 weeks makes it impossible for him to relax and enjoy the ride. To prolong this unusual feeling, Carmy stops by Bee Hive on his way to The Bear.
"Have you made your boss angry, Honey?" He asks as he pulls out his wallet to pay. He ordered the americano as he always does.
"No…why do you ask?" You ask, tilting your head in confusion.
"Uh, 'cause you-you're always here. Do you not take days off? Not that I'm complaining. I-I like seeing you here." Carmy's words get quieter as he speaks, red creeping up his neck. So much for trying to make a joke.
You look around the room and tell him, "Imma let you in on a little secret."
Carmy follows your hand, waving him to get closer. The smell of cigarettes invades your senses as you get close to him. You'd never admit that the mix of his cigarettes and your coffee is addicting. As both lean over the counter, you whisper, "I'm the boss. I can't run away even if I wanted to."
"You own the coffee shop," Carmy pans in shock.
Carmy is more than surprised at your words. Especially now that he knows how expensive it is to open a business. You can't be a day over 25 and own a successful coffee place. There is hope, after all.
"I do," you nod, standing straight once more.
A couple of years ago, you had inherited a hefty amount of money from an estranged aunt. Fresh out of college and with no real plan, you thought it would be a good moment to follow your dream and open the cozy café.
"How do you do it?" Carmy asks, amazed at the girl smiling at him. "I don't know if you know, but, um, I-I'm opening the restaurant around the block. Used to be The Beef?" He finishes grimly as he points to his side of the block.
"Oh, yeah. The guys who worked there helped me move some equipment when I first opened two years ago," you reveal, "Tell you what, whenever you have a break, come around. I'll give you a free americano and tell you all about it. Neighbor to neighbor."
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Carmy agrees. "I'll take you up on that."
Weeks go by, and Carmy seemingly forgets about Bee Hive and your pending conversation. You try not to overthink about his absence or how you might've scared him away. He's probably just busy remodeling his restaurant. You know better than anyone how much time that takes.
Still, his presence has become part of your routine, and you can't help but look at the door each time the bell rings. You expect to see him walking up to the counter, the remnants of cigarette smoke coming out his nose as he breathes.
You're pretty close to your assumption because Carmy has been dealing with the fire suppression test. They didn't fail the test once but twice, and if they didn't pass it on the third try, their plan to open the restaurant in 12 weeks goes out the window. Fak has tried everything, and nothing works.
He'd sent Richie once on a coffee run, but the fuckin' idiot went to the nearest Starbucks. Carmy had been looking forward to tasting your coffee and seeing his name in the cup with the little heart because he's 100% sure he's the only Carmen you know. It's not a common name in these parts of town.
One very early morning, he's walking to work, and as he passes Bee Hive, he sees you inside, wiping tables down before you open at 6:30.
Impulsively, he knocks on the glass, not giving himself the time to overthink things. You turn to look at the window and see him standing outside, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his familiar plaid jacket to protect himself from the chilly March air.
"Hey stranger," you greet him, opening the door and inviting him in.
"Hi," he breathes out, staring at you, "you're here early," he tries to casually mention.
You roll your eyes dramatically and say, "It's a downside of the job. Did you know people want coffee at the crack of dawn?"
You try acting as nonchalant as possible. It's not like you missed seeing one of your favorite customers, his beautiful blue eyes, or the way he rocks a simple white t-shirt.
"I had no idea," Carmy smiles, bringing his tattooed hand up to his lips, "I, uh, usually drink mine at night." That much is true. On those sleepless nights when insomnia takes over him, the best remedy is coffee.
"Would you make an exception and join me for a morning coffee at the crack ass of dawn?" Anxiously, you play with the rings on your fingers. It feels like you're asking the guy on a date when it's just a friendly coffee.
"As long as you have some business advice to spare?" Carmy responds shakily. He briefly looks down the street to glimpse at his restaurant. It's too early for anyone to be there yet.
"Deal."
Throwing the towel over your shoulder, you make your way behind the counter. Carmy attempts to make small talk with you as you prepare both drinks.
This is the first time he's watching you in action since you tend to stick to the cash register when he's around. It's not a coincidence. After the first time he came to Bee Hive, you wanted to see more of him, so you stationed yourself at the register where you'd be sure to see him, and he'd see you.
"Here you go." You place his coffee mug on the table along with yours before disappearing momentarily and returning with an orange soufflé coffee cake. You're pulling all the stops for Carmy to leave a good impression.
Carmy thanks you and sips his coffee, "Wow, this is fire!" He expected to taste an americano, but what you prepared was entirely different. He can make out hints of hazelnut and caramel in the coffee.
"Thanks. I took the liberty of changing your order. You can always come back to the americano, though…" you shrug shyly, looking at him over the rim of your mug.
"I-I appreciate it. Thanks." Carmy throws you a nervous grin. He gestures with his tattooed hand to dig into the cake you brought out. He shouldn't be the only one eating.
You and Carmy share the cake as you talk about yourselves and the crazy businesses you own. Somehow, talking to you comes easy to him. He's still nervous and scared to fuck things up, but the warm coffee and your even warmer smile ease him into it.
"How do you do it? This place is always packed, and you seem like you run a tight ship," Carmy wonders, playing with the fork. The cake is long gone, although the notes of orange remain on his tongue. Would you taste the same?
"It wasn't without mistakes. I had to learn a lot from my fuck ups and listen to my team because although I'm the owner, they are the ones doing most of the work. Whenever there's a flaw, they are the first to know," you speak softly, afraid of ruining the calm ambiance you've set up, twirling the small amount of coffee left in your mug.
It's your favorite part of morning coffee. When you have just the smallest bit of coffee left, and you know you'll never drink it because it's cold, but it gives you an excuse to remain where you are.
"So, all I gotta do is listen?" It's funny you say that because Carmy listens, but his friend's voices get muddled somewhere along the way. As much as he tries to focus on them, they merge together and form a cacophony in his head.
"A lot of listening and a lot of experimentation. I've been open for two years, and it's only been in the last six months that I can confidently tell you we found our groove," you admit with a grimace.
Bee Hive is your baby, but bringing it to life was everything but easy. You messed up so many times, costing you so much money. You didn't know shit about owning a business or building one from the ground up. Doing research and putting your pride aside to ask for help got you through it.
"I've only been doing this for, like, less than a fuckin' year, and I already want to pull my hair out," Carmy admits with a pitiful laugh.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you it gets better soon," you say apologetically, reaching for his hand that rests on the table.
Carmy freezes, glancing at your hand on top of his. He hasn't got a clue what to fucking do with the display of affection. Was it a display of affection? He doesn't fucking know. "It's, uh, it's, uh, it's alright. As-as long as you give me coffee, I think I can make it through," Carmen furrows his eyebrows as he stutters through the sentence.
"I can't wait to see what the award-winning chef does," you say, bringing your hand back to your lap, none the wiser to Carmy's internal struggle.
He should've done something to keep your hand on his. Place his other hand on yours or fucking turn his hand around to grasp it. He liked feeling your warm skin on his. It hasn't been a minute since you pulled away, and he's craving it already. It's ridiculous. Is he really that touch-starved that he's seeking affection from a near stranger?
He coughs and darts his eyes between the wooden table top and you, "Fuck. You-you know about that?"
"I might've done some research after finding out you're opening the restaurant. I got curious. I'm sorry." Apologizing is your default thing to do. Messing things up is your area of expertise. You really didn't think he'd mind you mentioning it.
"No, no, no, uh, you don't have to apologize. You just caught me off guard," Carmy shakes his head, reassuring both of you.
"Okay, good," you lightly smile at him, averting your eyes when your gazes meet.
If there's a time for you to make a move, it's now. Taking a shaky breath, you speak up, "I was wondering if you'd ever like to-."
A loud knock on the glass door interrupts you. You and Carmy jump and look towards the source of the noise. It's one of your regular clients, waving at you to open up. Looking at your watch, you see it's 6:30 already.
"Shit. I'm-I'm sorry I took so much of your time," Carmy apologizes, picking up his mug and the plate to put away.
You grab his wrist to make him stop in his tracks, "Relax. I enjoyed talking to you. Maybe we can do it again soon?"
Carmy nods wide-eyed. He likes the idea just as much as you do. You take away the mug and plate with a soft 'okay.' He then follows you to the door as you unlock it and turn the sign to 'open.'
"I, um, gotta go work on the menu. I'll probably be back later for another coffee?" Carmen asks you as if he's asking for permission, which you find adorable.
"I'll be behind the register," you say, watching him walk away. He turns his head back for a moment, and you catch the smile gracing his lips as yours turns to mimic him.
"Oh, he's cute," your customer, an older lady, says, watching him go along with you. "It's about time you got a boyfriend."
"Mrs. O'Hara, here for your tea?" You ask her, ignoring the comment about your love life. That woman will set you up with anyone. She does love her tea, though, and expects you to provide it on time.
It's slow, but Carmen warms up to you. Instead of grabbing his coffee to go, he now drinks it at the café, coincidentally around the same time you take your break.
He's been hesitantly opening up. It's not like he's telling you about how fucked up his family is or how his brother committed suicide. More often, it's about the restaurant and his work as a chef, the struggles of getting every permit they need on a tight schedule since they are supposed to open in about four weeks now, or the occasional childhood memory. It's everything you need to know at this stage.
You love listening to Carmy talk, even if you have to coax it out of him sometimes. He's passionate about the restaurant despite all the stress that comes from it, and he adores the people he works with. He's shy but not in a dorky way because he's actually fascinating. Before meeting him, you never knew that collecting denim was a thing.
The smell of cigarettes that clings to him is also tightly laced with his character. When you step outside to get some sun and the scent of someone smoking hits you, your heart instantly speeds up, hoping it's him coming for his daily americano, or to come swoop you away into a sunset.
"-I fell on my ass in the middle of the street. I was freaking out, thinking I was gonna get run over by a car," you exclaim as you tell Carmy about the crazy Christmas you spent in New York last year.
"It's New York. You probably would have been run over," Carmy chuckles along with you. "There was this one time I was running late and-" His phone vibrating interrupts him.
"Sorry, it's just the fridge guy," he tells you with a furrow of his eyebrows. You notice he does that a lot when he's thinking deeply. Carmy silences it and looks back over to you.
"You should pick that up. A busted fridge is the last thing you need. Trust me. Been there, done that." You encourage him to take the call. The restaurant is more important than your story about how you bruised your coccyx in New York.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Carm! Call him back before you forget," you insist, grabbing his empty cup to trash it. You don't give him any other option, leaving him there to help your employees with a faulty machine.
He watches you closely, closer than ever before. He allows himself to watch how you frown at the machine and how your ringed fingers fumble with the knobs. His eyes keep trailing down involuntarily, and they take in how nicely your jeans hug your ass.
He goes into a spiral into these old pair of Levi jeans popular in the 90s and how they would fit nicely with the shape of your hips and legs. Carmy continues on the tangent, imagining himself peeling them off your body.
The phone vibrating in his hand snaps him out of it. Clearing his throat, he picks up the phone and walks outside. He waves at you through the window as he makes his way back to The Bear. Your frustration at the machine vanishes momentarily as you wave back, except the machine splatters, forcing you to redirect your attention. When you look outside again, he's gone.
Stakes are high at The Bear. There's less than four weeks until Friends and Family, and there is much to do. Marcus has returned from Copenhagen and is working on the desserts. Tina is doing her job as the new sous chef. Fak and Sweeps are helping out wherever they can. And Richie is being Richie, trying to be open but resisting change.
"I need coffee or a pop. Anything with caffeine," Sydney says, throwing her head back. She and Carmen have been working on the chaos menu for hours, and she keeps messing up. Carmy insists that it's okay that they'll adjust and get it right soon, but she's beginning to lose hope.
"Me too. I'd kill for an espresso," Natalie agrees, softly rubbing her hand over her growing bump.
"I thought you couldn't have caffeine cause of the baby," Richie mentions, remembering Tiff's time while pregnant.
"I don't need you to fuckin' tell me what I can or can't eat, Richie," Natalie yells, glaring at him. Although he's right, the doctor told her to limit her caffeine intake. Hard to do when she's up all night thinking about everything she needs to do for The Bear.
"Shit. I'm sorry for fucking caring," Richie screams back, lifting his hands up in defense.
"I can go to the coffee place down the block. Get everyone something," Carmy pipes up, looking forward to seeing you today.
Natalie is quick to shoot that idea down, "You can't. The fridge guy is coming in 20 minutes."
"Fuck, that's right," Carmy groans, digging his head in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair, messing up his curls. He wanted to see you and talk to you, even if it was for five short minutes.
"I'll go," Sydney sighs. She needs to leave the kitchen for more than five minutes, or she'll go crazy, "Just tell me what you guys want to order."
Natalie grumbles about getting decaf, Richie orders a plain black coffee, and Carmy asks for his americano. As Sydney leaves to ask Marcus, Carmy yells after her, "Please, go to Bee Hive. If you get Starbucks, I'm gonna fucking lose it."
Richie and Natalie exchange a look. Richie because he's confused, and Natalie because she knows something is happening with Carmy. He's never been picky over coffee. In fact, they have an old coffee machine in the office that now goes unused because he's always at that coffee shop.
"Sorry, I didn't get the fuckin' memo. Since when is Starbucks bad?" Richie frowns, looking to get a rise out of Carmy.
"I don't think it's about the coffee, cousin," Natalie responds, directing her gaze towards her brother, who is hunched over the counters, chopping vegetables.
"If it's not about the coffee, what is it about?" Richie questions, crossing his arms.
"Shut the fuck up, Sugar," Carmy grumbles, looking at his sister with a glare. He already knows where she's going. She tried to bring it up a couple of days ago after she walked by the coffee shop and saw him being friendly with you.
Natalie smiles and responds, "Carmy has a crush on the barista."
"That's ridiculous. I don't have a crush on her." Carmy shakes his head, avoiding Richie and Natalie's eyes on him. They always do this. They gang up on him if he shows even the slightest interest in a girl. They think they can help, but all they do is embarrass him.
"Come on, Bear. Why else would you go almost every day to get coffee?" Natalie asks, giving him a look.
"Because it's good fuckin' coffee. Jesus, it's not that deep." Carmy grabs the veggies he chopped and drops them into a container to use later.
"It's okay to admit you like a pretty girl, cousin! I'm excited for you! Makes you human and not a lonely hermit," Richie jokes, pushing on Carmy's buttons. "When was the last time you got laid?"
"I swear to God, Richie. Shut the fuck up," Carmy points at him angrily.
"No, I should go with Sydney and see who this girl is!" Richie says, walking out of the half-built kitchen.
Carmy follows him instantly, "You're not going fuckin' anywhere, fuckin' jagoff." He's turning red from anger, seeing Richie with his mocking smile. Natalie follows behind them, amused at the situation. It reminds her of the banters they used to get in with Mickey.
"Admit that you like her," Richie shrugs, giving him a choice.
"No, I won't," Carmy refuses. "You always do this shit."
"Then, I'm going," Richie nods, stepping towards the door.
"Fuck! Shit, alright. I like her, okay? Don't fucking go anywhere," Carmy yells, rubbing a hand on his face out of frustration. It's like he's not allowed to keep anything good to himself.
"Was that so hard?" Richie grins, clapping a hand on Carmy's shoulder.
"Don't fuckin' touch me," Carmy grumbles, walking back to the kitchen. Natalie follows him with a smile, shaking her head at Richie.
Carmy sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He has yet to admit that he likes you more than he should. He's been avoiding it, afraid of what it might lead to, or rather, what it might not.
He couldn't let Richie go see you. He has a big fuckin' mouth and will tell you Carmy has a crush on you whether it's true or not. Just like that, he feels the sour taste in his mouth, his heartburn making an appearance. Carmy should go look for his pepto before it gets worse.
Unaware of the argument back at The Bear, Sydney walks to Bee Hive. She's walked past many times but has yet to have the time to stop and try it out.
As she waits in line, she reads over the drinks menu. It's clear that it's been carefully curated. Starbucks has nothing on this menu. She can see why Carmy would prefer to come here instead.
When it's her turn to order, Sydney takes out her phone to recite everyone's drink order. She also points to a few pastries, thinking Marcus would like to try some of them and get inspiration. That and she knows Natalie will enjoy them as well.
You're sitting at a table close to the pickup counter. You often find yourself all over the store, ensuring everything goes smoothly. Sometimes, you stop to talk to your regulars and see how they're doing.
You notice Sydney struggling with all the cups she has to carry. It's proving difficult despite the to-go trays your barista put them in. Deciding to approach her, you ask, "Do you need help?"
"Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks," Sydney responds with a nervous smile. She's trying hard to grab everything, including the box with the pastries.
You continue watching her struggle because you know she needs help. You let her try and figure it out for one more minute before stepping in again when she almost drops two of the drinks, "Need some help now?"
"Yeah," Sydney sighs, "I guess I can leave one of the trays here, go to the restaurant, and come back for the rest," she speaks mostly to herself.
"Are you going far?"
"No, just the restaurant down the block," Sydney responds with a sigh, scratching her eyebrow as she tries to figure out the logistics of carrying the drinks. She could get a box to put everything in.
You perk up at her response. The only restaurant down the block is Carmen's. Could she work there? "Carmy's restaurant?"
"You know Carmy?" Sydney asks, tilting her head. Maybe Nat was right. Carmy spends his time here because of the woman in front of her.
"He comes here often. Anyway, I can go with you to help you out. It's not far, and I'd feel bad if your drinks got cold." You offer to help her out because you're a nice person. Not because you want a chance to see the curly-haired man you are developing feelings for.
"You really don't have to…"
"It's really not a problem," you press, grabbing one of the to-go trays and motioning for her to lead the way.
Sydney sighs in defeat and nods, "Thanks. I'm Sydney, by the way."
"I'm Honey," you smile, following her outside.
You chat all the way to the restaurant with Sydney. She reminds you of Carmy in some ways, so you can see why they are friends. Before arriving at the restaurant, Sydney apologizes in advance for any sort of mess there might be, including yelling.
As you near the building under renovation, your palms start to sweat. Maybe you shouldn't have come. You're showing up unannounced, and he's probably too busy to talk to you anyway. You can slip in and out without him noticing. That's the goal now.
You open the door for Sydney, letting her go through first, and quietly follow her into the restaurant. There's no time to escape, as all eyes are instantly on you.
Richie is arguing with Fak when he sees you walk in. He narrows his eyes as Carmy looks in your direction from the kitchen. With just one glance to Carmy's face, he knows who you're supposed to be.
"Guess I didn't have to go anywhere. She came to me," Richie whispers, rushing out the door.
"Shut the fuck up. Where are you going? Don't embarrass me!" Carmy whispers out to Richie unsuccessfully.
"Oh, you'll do that all by yourself," Richie throws over his shoulder.
"Honey, hey, what-what're you doing here?" Carmy speaks, not giving Richie a chance to open his big mouth. He stands between you and Richie, blocking him for the time being.
"Sydney needed help with the drinks," you answer nervously, averting your eyes.
"Oh, thanks for that. You didn't have to," Carmy approaches you and takes the drinks from your hands. His fingers brush with yours momentarily, causing you both to blush.
"I did, or else you probably wouldn't have anything to drink," you whisper to him.
Sydney, Fak, and Richie all watch the interaction amusedly. Richie has a big teasing grin on his face as he makes a plan in his head.
"Hi, I'm Richie! Carmy's cousin," he introduces himself, shoving Carmy to the side and shaking your hand enthusiastically. "I gotta say Carmen right here is obsessed with your coffee. He's banned us from getting Starbucks."
Carmy curses under his breath as Richie does precisely what he tells him not to. He has the urge to throw the coffee at him and run away.
"Is that right?" You ask, amused, looking over at Carmy with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh yeah," Richie answers for him as Carmy tries to find the right words to say. "Cousin, why don't you give the nice lady a tour of the place?"
"It's not done yet. Could be dangerous," Carmy hopelessly says with a gulp.
"Nonsense! You'll take care of her!" Richie insists. He takes the coffee from Carmy's hands and pushes him in your direction. "Go give her a tour."
Richie, Sydney, and Fak all disappear to the office to stay out of the way and try to snoop simultaneously. Fak sends Carmy a not-so-discreet thumbs-up that makes you giggle.
He's internally screaming at his so-called friends but is glad to see you. It was all he wanted before Sydney left to get their drinks. It's strange having you here at The Bear, though. He's so used to seeing you in your own space back at Bee Hive.
Trying to make things better, you say, "Sorry you've been roped into this. You probably have better things to do. I can go-"
Carmy doesn't let you finish. "No, stay. I want to show you around."
"Let's see what you got then, Berzatto," you grin, following him to the kitchen.
Carmy takes his time showing you The Bear. He wants you to stay. He wants to spend time with you but doesn't really know how to say it. So he takes it slow, answers your questions about the restaurant, shows you the front and how everything will be laid out, and introduces you to the ones around, including the fridge guy working on the handle.
Sadly, you get a call from Bee Hive asking you to come back. Carmy walks you outside, dreading having to say goodbye.
"I'm really excited for The Bear to open. You have a great place and team," you tell Carmy.
"I really got lucky with them, huh?" He asks, playing with a dish towel.
"I gotta go. I'll see you later, Berzatto." You don't know where you got the guts to lean towards him and kiss his cheek.
Carmy stays still as his face heats up. You start walking away and throw him a smile over your shoulder. When you're a distance away, he touches the cheek you kissed. Back inside, Richie runs over to Sugar to tell her what he just witnessed.
It's late when Carmy leaves The Bear. As he walks to the train station, he has his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket. On his way, he sees a lone light turned on in your café. Crossing the street to check it out, he sees you're still there with glasses perched on your nose in front of the computer.
He tries the door, and to his luck, it's open. You look in his direction, startled, but relax once you see it's him.
"Nice glasses," Carmy teases, pulling out a chair to sit.
"Are you making fun of me?" You purse your lips, propping your chin on your palm.
"No, I…I think you look cute with them," Carmy admits. After a stern talk from Sugar and Richie, he's realized he should probably make a proper move on you because if what they say is true, you also have a crush on him.
"Thanks," you blush, the light from your screen making it obvious to Carmy, who can't stop the corners of his lips from turning up into a smile.
"Late night?"
"One of my baristas is moving out of state. I have to find someone new, preferably who has experience," you say with a sigh. Glancing at him, you add, "Are you perhaps interested in the position?"
"Poaching me from my own restaurant, nice. I'll let you know I'm an excellent worker," Carmy jokes, tapping his fingers on the table.
There's no doubt in your mind he's an excellent worker. He has to be if he's considered one of the best up-and-coming chefs. Or to work in one of the best restaurants in the world with three Michelin stars.
"I don't know. I'll need references," you speak as if not believing him.
Carmy smiles and softly chuckles, "Fair enough."
There's a moment of silence between the two of you that Carmy is quick to fill, "So, uh, have you had dinner yet by chance?" This is it.
You shake your head no and look at him with hopeful eyes.
"Wanna go grab pizza? I know a place," he asks, finding your gaze on him.
"Say no more," you say, closing your laptop and taking off your glasses. "I'm starving."
Carmy waits for you to lock Bee Hive and grab your things. Then, you both walk to the pizza place. To pass the time, you and Carmy talk about your days and anything that comes to mind. Nothing serious as you get to know each other.
Waiting in line to order the pizza, you tell him all about your nickname and how you were donned 'Honey' to everyone who knows you. In return, he tells you about his nickname 'Bear' and why his restaurant is named as such. For the first time, he dares mention Mickey.
"Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy says, taking a slice of the pie and placing it on your plate.
"I'll see about that," you murmur. You wait until he has a slice of his own and dig in simultaneously.
"It's good, but this is not the best pizza place in Chicago," you say after chewing the first bite, "I'm gonna get your chef license revoked."
"Are you? With what proof? Have you tried all the pizza places to know?"
"I don't have to because I've tried the best," you hum, taking another bite. The cheese stretches as you pull it away.
"Oh yeah? Which one?" Carmy questions you, taking a drink of his beer.
"Mine. The pizza I make is the best," you shrug modestly.
"Wait. You cook?" Carmy asks, giving you a look of surprise.
Cooking is a universal thing. Most people know how to cook up to a degree, yet only some are as confident in their skills as you are. You know you're definitely not up to Carmy's level, but if there is something you know how to do properly, it's pizza.
"Yeah! You're not the only good cook here, Berzatto," you sass back at him, dipping the pizza crust in the marinara sauce.
"Sorry for assuming," he raises his palms.
"You're forgiven," you chirp.
"When will I try this famous pizza of yours then?" Carmy wonders. An attempt to see if you'd like to see more of him.
"I promise I'll make it for you once you open The Bear. You're too stressed to fully enjoy it now," you respond. You were reaching out. Throwing hints that you want this to continue in the foreseeable future.
The conversation continues to flow with an empty pizza box in front of you. Customers come and go until it's only the two of you and a drunk customer picking up his pizza.
"Tell me about your tattoos. Were they an act of rebellion or something else?"
It's an excuse to touch his hands. You reach for them, turning them to see the black ink on his hands and fingers. You gently trace over them with the pads of your fingers. Over the hand that's stabbed, the letters S.O.U. on his knuckles and the forget-me-nots. The one you're dying to touch, though, is the one on his bicep; you'd give anything to feel the hard muscle underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white t-shirt.
"Uh, my first tattoo is the 773. Got it when I left Chicago for the first time. After that, I sort of became addicted to them. I found they helped my anxiety when it was becoming too much. The pain distracted me and made me feel stronger than I actually was," he says, letting you touch him. He finds that he likes it. Your touch is soft and warm. Comforting.
"So what you're trying to say is you're a masochist," you say, bouncing your eyebrows at him. Your touch goes further up his arm to turn it and look at the fish tattoo on his forearm.
"I guess so," Carmy responds with a breathy laugh, "Do you have any tattoos?"
"Maybe…" You shrug as the pads of your fingers trail back down to his palm until you pull them back towards you. Carmy instantly misses the feeling, opting to cross his arms to retain the warmth you left behind.
"It's bad, isn't it?" He says knowingly. Your reaction told him everything he needed to know.
"The worst," you grimace, shaking your head at the memory of you getting it.
"So, rebellion or something else?"
"Rebellion. For all the wrong reasons," you groan, burying your face in your hands, "Growing up, everyone saw me as a good girl because that's what I was. Breaking the rules terrified me. So, as a teenager, I didn't want to be seen as a goody two shoes, so the summer before I went to college, I decided that getting a tattoo would make me a badass."
"Did it work?"
"God, no. I only got the outline done 'cause it hurt like a bitch. Then I went crying to my parents, fully having a meltdown, apologizing for disappointing them," You scrunch your nose as you say the following words, "They laughed in my face, called me a wimp, and told me to suck it up."
Carmy fully laughs at your story. Head thrown back, eyes closing, "What did you get?"
"That's a secret, Berzatto," you purse your lips, avoiding responding. You just know he'll make fun of you for it.
Everyone who has seen your tattoo has made fun of you for it, yourself included. It's so silly and not badass. Carmy will have to wait to see your tattoo, and you hope this continues so he can see it up close.
"Really? That bad?" Carmy stares wide-eyed.
"It's terrible," you nod, leaning on the table. "We should probably get going before the waitress throws a fit."
Carmy looks over his shoulder to see the waitress glaring at them. It's five minutes till close, and they've made no move to go. He turns back to you and nods towards the door. Carmy helps you with your jacket and leaves a tip on the jar for the waitress. At that, she happily calls after them with a 'Good night!'
"Do you live far?" Carmy asks, seeing how dark it is now that most places have closed. There are too many lamp posts that aren't working. He'd feel better if he could walk you home or you called an Uber. Preferably the former.
"Only a couple of blocks away. Why?"
"It's late. Let me walk you home," Carmy says decidedly, not giving you much of a choice.
"Thanks," you respond with a small smile.
The pace you set is slow. You don't want your time with Carmy to end just yet. He's such an interesting and sweet guy. He's a little awkward, but it adds to his charm, and you can see he's trying.
Somewhere along the way, his hand brushes against yours briefly. Then, it happens again, and you decide to bite the bullet. You grasp his hand in yours.
"Is this okay?" You ask when he falls silent.
Carmy doesn't have a lot of experience with girls. He can't even remember the last time he held a girl's hand. All he knows is he doesn't remember ever feeling this good. "Yes, uh, this is okay."
Carmy walks you up to your front door when you reach your house. You unlock the door but stay outside face-to-face with Carmy.
"Thanks for the pizza," you say, fiddling with your fingers. You were about to make one more move for the night. Because as long as Carmy allows you, you'll keep pushing for more.
"Sorry, it wasn't the best," he retorts, rubbing his jaw with his hand. You notice he does that a lot when nervous.
"Your company made up for it," you reassure him, "g'night Carmy." You kiss his cheek goodbye, watching as his cheeks blush.
"Night," he whispers.
As you turn to leave, Carmy stops you by grabbing your wrist, "Wait-uh, can I? Uh-shit. Fuck it." For a second, Carmy shuts out the excessive thoughts in his head and does what he's been dying to do for weeks.
Carmy cups your jaw and kisses you. It's soft and slow. He gives you enough leeway to pull away if it's something you don't want, but you reciprocate eagerly. You've been waiting for this all night.
As confidence surges through his body, Carmy throws an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You wrap your arms around him, one of your hands resting on his neck, tangling on his curls. The tug of your fingers feels like heaven.
The kiss turns needy and desperate, your lips moving perfectly in sync. His tongue brushes over your lip; Carmy has been dying to test a theory. Are you as sweet as your name?
He's rewarded by a little noise in the back of your throat as he slips his tongue into your mouth. It's endearing, and he finds a way to make you do it again. With heads tilting to deepen the kiss, he concludes he was right. You're pure honey. Sweet and addicting.
When Carmy returns to his apartment, he gets the urge to create, to cook. He wants to bring your taste to life with his cooking. Something with honey.
"I was wondering if you'd want to come to the restaurant for Family and Friends."
You and Carmy are in your little office at Bee Hive. He stands between your legs as you sit on the desk. His lips are slightly red and swollen, and the hair at the nape of his neck is messier than usual.
"Hm, I could be persuaded," you pretend to think as you play with the golden chain around his neck, pulling him towards you.
"Yeah?" Carmy laughs, leaning to brush his lips against yours. When he feels you nod, he closes the small gap between the two of you.
His hands hold your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. He tastes like coffee, which is to be expected from the discarded cup beside you. It's funny how your relationship, if it could be called that, has moved all around Bee Hive from the register to the front and now to your office.
You're at a weird spot where you're not exactly friends because friends don't kiss, but you're not a couple either. It's a situationship for sure. You're content with what you have now, although you'd also love it if Carmy were to ask you to be more. You pin it on him being shy. He'll get around to it.
"What do you say?" Carmy questions as he kisses a trail from your cheek to your jaw.
"Consider me in," you giggle when he kisses a tickly spot.
Carmy brushes a strand of hair out of your face, remaining close to you. This is what he needs. After months of stress and anxiety of having to deal with The Beef, now The Bear, he needed you and your calming presence. Someone removed from the chaos, a safe haven.
He's quiet as his thoughts consume him, and you take the intimate position to fix his gold chain. Turning it so the clasp faces the back instead of the front. "I'm excited, Carmy," you say with a smile, brushing his cheek with your thumb.
"You can bring someone with you," Carmy offers nervously because he realizes he probably won't have the time to spend much time with you. "I-I don't think I'll be around much. I'm sorry. I'd understand if that makes you change your mind," Carmy drops his head as he braces himself for disappointment.
As the weeks pass, you learn more about Carmy and his insecurities. It doesn't deter you from wanting to be with him. Everyone has their issues. "Berzatto, stop. Look at me," you softly divert his attention, "I'd love to go and support you even if it's from the sidelines."
"You sure?" He asks once more.
If reassurance is what he needs, that's what you'll give. "Don't worry about me. This is your moment, Carmy. Enjoy it. I'll be around afterward."
"Thank you for understanding," Carmy responds, stealing one more kiss from you.
When he returns to The Bear, he helps Sydney prep the dishes they finally chose to serve. He notes how everything is laid out and anything they should fix before opening.
Richie struts into the kitchen with a suit on. Apparently, it's his thing now. Carmy figures staging at Chef Terry's restaurant had a good impact on him. All Carmy wanted was to show Richie he had what it takes. That he's not a fuck up.
"Glad to see things are going well with Honey," Richie thunders.
"What are you talking about?" Carmy says in a rush as he plates the lamb expertly.
"That thing on your neck," Richie says, motioning to his own neck. He has a smug look on his face.
"I don't have time for this, cousin," Carmy grumbles, wiping the plate where the sauce might've splattered.
Groaning, Richie grabs one of the new pans and holds it in front of Carmy. "I don't see anything," he frowns, looking at Richie for an explanation.
"Right here," Richie points towards the edge of his t-shirt around his neck.
Carmy pulls it back and finally spots what Richie has been referring to. There is a fading purple bruise on his skin, a hickey. You must've done it when he was back in your office. He'd been too busy touching you to notice.
Sydney, silently watching, pipes up, "No wonder he hasn't been as on edge lately." Carmy shoots her a glare, which causes her to shrug and laugh with a, "What? It's true."
"Ay, yo, Sugar, get in here!" Richie yells down the hall to the office.
"What is it?" Natalie barges in, afraid something went to shit.
Carmy ignores Richie as he babbles to Natalie what he found. His face is red, though, as Sydney nudges his side.
"That's enough about me. We have shit to do," Carmy shouts in his chef's voice.
Everyone in the kitchen, including Richie and Natalie, repeats, "Yes, chef!"
Walking out of the kitchen Richie, 'whispers' to Natalie, "I've always wondered if he likes to be called chef in bed."
"Fuck off, Richie," Natalie glares, but then it falls, and it's replaced with a teasing grin, "He definitely does."
"I heard that! Don't you two have better things to do?" Carmy screams at them.
"Yes, chef!"
Carmy keeps hearing Cicero's 'Uh-oh' throughout the whole day. He understands Cicero, he really does, but to call you a distraction?
His work with The Bear is only starting. They managed to make it to Friends and Family. Now, they have to keep up their best work to fill up the restaurant daily and have a waiting list. His work is far from done. He should listen to Cicero.
Cicero said it with the best of intentions. He doesn't want the Berzatto siblings to fail. He wants to believe they'll succeed and, most importantly, get him his money.
If there is something Cicero has learned throughout the years, it is that girls are distractions. They mean well, but oftentimes, they keep your eyes off the ball. Especially when it's a new relationship like Carmy's. Ultimately, it's up to Carmy to decide what he wants to do. Cicero has played his part by giving him his advice.
One last delivery is made to the restaurant an hour before opening. Richie is the one to receive it and place it in front of Carmy. "She's a keeper, Cousin," he says with a pointed look and a nod. He also wants the best for Carmy, and yet it doesn't align with Cicero.
You knew Carmy would be too stressed and all over the place to eat or drink, so you sent everyone at The Bear a drink and a pastry. One of the cups has Carmen's name with a little heart and 'good luck' written on it.
"Yeah, she is," Carmy sighs, turning the cup in his hands to look at the message. His thumb brushes over your handwriting longingly. Is listening to Cicero the wise thing to do? He's one of the most successful men he knows in his family.
When it's 10 minutes till open, Carmy changes into his uniform and looks in the mirror. His heart is racing, begging for Friends and Family not to be a complete failure. Walking out of the bathroom, Carmy is a man on a mission.
It starts relatively well, but like everything in Carmy's life, the kitchen starts welcoming in the chaos.
They are too slow getting the orders out, which causes Sydney to start doubting herself and asking Carmy to step in. He reassures her she's doing good. They just have to keep up the pace.
Then, one of the new chefs disappears mid-rush. Forcing Tina to work two stations and Marcus to step out of his to help Sydney. Carmy ignores some weird tension between them as he works on ensuring the dishes are good to go.
Next thing he knows, Sugar is rushing into the kitchen, yelling at him about forks. It's wasted time, as he can't do anything about it. A shrill reverberates inside his head as he looks at the ticking clock. It's enough to give him a headache.
With no one to take a dish to its table, Carmy takes it upon himself to do it. There's no time to re-fire or wait for someone. He places it on their table and pours the tea into their cups before retreating with an 'enjoy.'
He looks at his restaurant, and suddenly, the ringing in his head gets louder. Sitting in a booth is his old boss, staring back at him like he did back in New York. Like he was waiting for Carmy to fail.
His voice echoes in Carmy's head. Why are you so fuckin' slow. Hurry up. Go faster motherfucker. Talentless piece of shit.
Right before Carmy spirals, it all goes away. His focus shifts entirely as he sees you taking your seat for the night. The one he chose because he'd be able to see you from the kitchen. You have successfully blocked the mirage he'd conjured up.
You're there with your brother as Richie talks you up, thanking you for coming. As if sensing him, your eyes lock with Carmys. Shyly, you send him a wave, which he returns, thanking you in his head for getting there at the perfect time.
Carmy ducks back to the kitchen with newfound energy. Richie enters shortly after him.
"Chef, your girl is here."
"Thanks, Chef, um, do you have the notepad?" Carmy asks as he continues cleaning dishes and making sure each one is up to par.
"Here you go."
Taking the notepad from Richie, he begins scribbling. I love- No, too fuckin' soon. Thank you for- Nope, it's too stale.
I'm happy you're here, Honey. Wait for me after you're done? -Bear
"Here," Carmy hands it to him without even looking at Richie.
"Keep up the good work, Chefs," Richie yells out to the room before disappearing to the front of the house. The door swinging shut behind him.
"Yes, Chef!"
Something isn't working in the kitchen. They're too backed up, and no matter how hard they try, they're always a tad too slow. Through Sydney surrounding the wheel to Richie, Carmy steals glances out the kitchen window. You're smiling at whatever your brother says, your lips sipping the wine he chose. Carmy can get through this night because, in the end, you'll be waiting for him.
"There he is," you sing as you spot Carmy walking out of the kitchen. The chef's whites back in his locker as he sports his white t-shirt, jeans, and jacket.
Fak, who kept you company while Carmy finished up, speaks up next, "My brother, I'm gonna grab a sandwich and head home. Honey, it was a pleasure meeting you."
"You too, Neil!"
"Thanks for everything," Carmy tells him, giving him a hug and a pat like dudes do.
Carmy turns and grabs your hand to pull you close and kiss your cheek. "What did you think?"
"It was the most delicious thing I've ever tasted," you tell him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
There's a reason Carmy has had so many accolades despite his young age. He has a gift in the kitchen. The moment his food touched your taste buds, your life changed. He and Sydney outdid themselves, and the way everything flowed showed how much work they put into the restaurant.
"You're exaggerating," Carmy modestly says, his arms wrapping around your waist.
"I'm really not," you shake your head, pursing your lips. Carmy can't resist placing a small peck on your red-painted lips.
"What about your famous pizza?"
"No, it might be the best pizza in Chicago, but whatever I ate today topped it," you smile at him, scrunching your nose. "Consider your chef's license reinstated,"
"Thanks," Carmy laughs breathily, "Do you mind if we walk? I feel some of the rush still."
"Lead the way, Mr. Berzatto."
Carmy grabs your hand, leading you to the streets of Chicago. It's silent momentarily as the wind cools Carmy's heated face. He places his hand along with yours into his pocket.
"Did your brother like it?" He asks, breaking the ice.
"Oh yeah. I'm officially like the best sister ever," you respond, squeezing his hand.
You had accidentally forgotten that your brother had passed the Bar exam. So, you didn't have time to get him anything in celebration. You figured dinner at a lovely new restaurant would help while you got him a proper present.
"How did you feel throughout, though? It looked intense." You often found yourself looking through the small glass window into the kitchen. They were always on the move, looking for the next thing to do.
"It didn't just look like it. I'm used to it, though," Carmy admits with a sniff. Everyone's best and worst habits shone through for those couple of hours. It's an environment he's all too familiar with, in and out of the kitchen.
"That rough," you grimace.
"It's fine. We have a lot to work on, but it's a start, and it wasn't entirely terrible," Carmy says, thinking back on tonight. Before coming out to meet you, he wrote down a couple of things to go through with Sugar and Sydney.
"Good, 'cause I hope The Bear sticks around the block," you say, bumping your shoulder with his.
You invite Carmy into your house when you arrive. He takes up your offer, holding your hand to help you balance as you take your heels off. It reminds Carmy he forgot to mention how beautiful you looked today.
He follows you to the kitchen, watching your hips sway and your dress skirt swishing. Padding to the wine fridge, you pick out a bottle of red to celebrate.
Carmy indulges in looking at your legs as you stretch up to reach for the glasses of wine up in your cabinets. His blue eyes darken as your dress hikes up, exposing your pretty thighs.
His gaze darts back up at you when you turn around to place the glasses on the kitchen counter. You hand him the wine opener so he can do the honors because you suck at taking the cork out. It's why you mainly stick to cheaper wines with twist-off caps.
"Here is to The Bear and its amazing owner," you say, lifting your glass in front of you.
"Here's to not fuckin' it up entirely," Carmy follows, making you giggle. Your wine glasses clink, and you take a drink.
Placing the glass back down, Carmy pins you against the counter, his strong hands resting on the edge of it. You look at him through your lashes, a hand coming up to his chest to feel the steady thumping of his heart.
"You look beautiful. I like the dress," Carmy murmurs. It's better late than never.
The dress you wear is a pretty shade of light blue. Simple yet dressy. The neckline gives him a good view of your cleavage and has long sleeves to compensate for the shorter length. They currently cover the goosebumps lining your skin.
"Yeah? I picked it out thinking you might," you reveal, biting your lip. The shade reminded you of his eyes.
"You were right," he whispers, cupping your jaw. As pretty as the dress is, he's sure it'll look so much better on the floor.
Carmy closes his eyes as he leans down to kiss you. He's always struggled with words, so he hopes it's enough for you to catch what he's trying to say.
You smile into the kiss, blindly leaving your glass to the side to be able to touch him. Your palm presses against his chest and taut abdomen. He hides a nice amount of muscle under his t-shirts, a pleasant surprise.
Carmy easily lifts you up to sit down on the kitchen island. He steps between your legs, never breaking the heated kiss. The hands on your waist trail down to your thighs and under your dress. Carmy's tattooed hands squeeze your ass and thighs, earning him a moan from you.
This is the farthest you've ever gotten, and you're more than ready to have all of him. Carmy knows this, which leads to his thoughts getting out of control.
He has to make a decision now. Does he allow himself to be with you, or does he remain by himself like always? Richie's, Sugar's, Cicero's, and Sydney's voices all shout at him different things. Some are in favor, and others are in opposition. 'Uh oh.'
He can't lead you on and sleep with you if he will back out tomorrow. The voices become deafening in an instant, ripping him away from your embrace. His emotions bubbled over and spilled all over the place.
"Wait, stop, I just-" Carmy breathes heavily, taking a couple of steps back from you. Carmy's hand comes up to his forehead as he attempts to organize his thoughts.
"What's wrong?" You ask worriedly. Did you do something wrong?
Carmen's thoughts spill out his mouth without making much sense as he paces in your kitchen. "I can't stop thinking about it and owe it to my team..."
"Carm?" You slide off the kitchen counter, approaching him slowly.
"-keeps saying it's a distraction," he rambles mostly to himself. His heart is pounding painfully in his chest. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was having a heart attack.
"Hey, hey, hey. What's a distraction?" Softly, you grab onto his arms, stopping him in his tracks, trying to find his lost gaze.
"You. Whatever this is," Carmy breathes, finally meeting your eyes, which he instantly regrets as your eyes turn sad.
The watering of your eyes is unintentional, as is the knot forming in your throat. "You think I'm distracting you?" You question barely above a whisper.
His response is instant, "Fuck, no, the opposite. W-When I'm with you or-or think about you, things get clearer, and it's-it's when I feel the most focused." Carmy holds your shoulders, comforting you because he never meant to hurt you. He can't stand the sad look in your eyes.
Slowly, you begin to piece together his rambling and conclude that other people have been telling him you're a distraction. You wonder if they don't want him to be happy. The Bear is the center of Carmy's life, and before that, it was the restaurant in New York. He deserves more than this crazy job.
"Then fuck what others tell you, Carmen. You deserve to have a life outside The Bear." Maybe you're selfish because you don't want to lose him, but you hope he believes your words.
"I-I don't. I don't deserve all your attention or your affection. I'm nothing special. I don't deserve you." Carmy says, shaking his head with furrowed brows.
Weeks ago, he had no source of enjoyment. He said it himself at the support group. Now, he has you, yet he can't bear the thought of you wanting to be with him. He feels like he's tricking you into a bad deal. That's what he is, though, isn't he? An overachieving fuck up with tons upon tons of baggage.
Carmen Berzatto is an anxious person with too many problems in his life. He has a fucked up family. His mother is a mentally unstable alcoholic. His brother was addicted to painkillers and decided that shooting himself on a bridge was better than living this life. That's without mentioning all the trauma he has from his job and the terrible people he's worked with.
What good does he have to offer you?
"Yes, you do," you reassure him, placing your hands on his cheeks. The cool metal of your rings soothes him somewhat, grounding him. "You deserve all that and more, Carmy. You're so sweet and kind and hard-working. You've been through shit. You deserve something good in life. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's not, but don't close yourself off."
You're begging at this point. Whatever this relationship is, it's just starting. He's not giving himself a chance. You like Carmy so damn much. He's funny without knowing it and thoughtful, too. There are so many qualities he doesn't realize he has.
His eyes watch you as tears line them. He's silently pleading for you to convince him. To get him out of his own head and forget the expectations others have on him.
"I'm not going to force you into anything, Carm. It's your call, but I've enjoyed our last couple of months together. I know we don't know each other completely, but I want to know everything about you. I have feelings for you, so whatever you decide, I'll support it."
Being honest is all you can do at this point. You pour your heart out and hope Carmy chooses you.
You and Carmy stand in the middle of your kitchen. Face to face, reaching out towards each other. It's clear as day that you want the same thing. It's only a matter of taking the right steps now.
"I can't let you go," Carmy responds, grabbing the hand on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the back of it.
"Then don't."
Carmy's decision is made. Without another thought, he smashes his lips against yours. He grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head to meet his heated kiss.
It's more intense now that the cards are on the table. Nothing to hold him back.
Tongues clash together as your bodies seek each other out. The temperature rises when Carmy lifts you up to wrap your legs around his hips. His hands are on the back of your thighs, holding tight onto you.
"Bedroom?" He asks, breaking the kiss, a trail of saliva between the two of you.
"Down the hallway," you breathe heavily, kissing down his neck.
Carmy makes it to the bedroom, opening the door with a bang. He spots your bed, placing you in the middle with him holding himself up on top of you.
He watches as your back meets the bed and your fair fans around you like a halo. The curvature of your breasts accentuated even more from the position.
Carmy hikes your leg further up his hips as he dips down to kiss a wet trail down to the neckline of your dress. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on the rounded flesh, nipping at the skin playfully when you arch your back to push more into him.
"Carmy," you breathe, cupping his jaw to pull him back to your lips. Grinding your hips, you manage to graze against his bulge.
"Shit," Carmy shakily curses, thrusting his hips to meet your touch once more.
Curiously, your hands wander across his body. Carmy's moans in your ear make your panties wetter than they already are.
You grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off. You're desperate to have him, your cunt aches for him. Your nails scratch down his firm stomach when he bites into your earlobe, softly calling your name.
"Unzip me," you pant, pushing him away and pulling your hair off to the side.
Carmy grabs the small zipper, pushing it down and exposing your pretty skin. As he slides the fabric off of you, he kisses your shoulders and back, taking note of the goosebumps on your skin.
His mind is in the present, and nothing can take it away from him. It's like a switch he managed to turn off in his brain. No more family drama, no more The Bear. It's just you...and him. Honey and Bear.
You stretch your neck to the side, giving Carmy more space to pepper kisses across the delicate skin. The dress pooling at your feet exposes your chest, and Carmy's hands come up from behind you. His fingers shyly brush up your stomach, tickling you, until they find your breasts.
He draws a moan from you as he squeezes them in his palms, pushing you back to meet his chest; turning your head to the side, you find his lips.
The kiss breaks when he slides one of his hands into your underwear, dipping his finger to feel your wetness. Your arm reaches back to dig your fist in his curls.
"You're soaked, Honey," he moans, finding your clit to tease it.
"Been waiting for so long, Carmy," you whine as your hips stutter along with the flicks of his wrist.
"I'm sorry. I'm here now," he purrs into your ear.
Carmy can hear the distinct 'shlick, shlick, shlick' of his fingers against your clit. It spurs him on as he slips a finger into you. He can't wait to have his cock inside of you, snug and warm.
"Oh my god, Carmen," you gasp when he prods another finger into your entrance. Hanging onto his arm across your chest, you roll your hips against his fingers.
"I got you," he says, digging his fingers deeper into you and curling them.
Your knees buckle as the tips of his fingers curl and hit your g spot repeatedly. If it weren't for him, you'd be on the floor. With your tummy tensing under the weight of the pleasure, you stutter out, "I'm gonna cum."
Carmy's hand is wet from your juices as he ups the ante. Just as your walls begin to squeeze around his fingers, he pulls them out to circle around your clit.
"Oh, f-fuck!" You squeal, throwing your head back onto his shoulder.
The way your clit softly twitches under the pads of his fingers fucks with Carmy. It makes his cock throb and leak into his jeans.
Untangling from his embrace, you place a breathless kiss on Carmy's lips. His slick digits dig into your hips as he prolongs it.
Blindly, you find the edge of his jeans and unbutton them. If Carmy notices, he doesn't say anything. You want to give him one more reason to stay with you.
He moans into your mouth when you grasp his length through his boxers. He's rock hard as he desperately ruts against your hand.
With your hold still on him, you push him to sit on the bed. Carmy looks up at you lustfully. You plant a single short kiss on his lips before kneeling on the floor between his legs. You leave love bites down his chest while looking up at him through your lashes.
Carmy brushes away any hair that falls on your face, his blue eyes focused solely on you. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you pull them down along with his underwear.
His length pops up from its confines, slapping against his tummy. Its tip is a pretty pink shade, with a thick length and a slight curve to it. You salivate instantly at the sight of it.
Carmy's nervous under you. It's been a long since he's been with someone else, and he's never been the most confident.
"Relax," you say teasingly, kissing around his lower tummy to calm him.
Finally, your hand wraps around his cock, lightly pumping it. Leaving sloppy kisses down his happy trail, you feel Carmy's stomach taut in anticipation.
It's been so fuckin' long.
With your eyes staring into his hungry ones, you kiss the pink head that glistens with pre, teasingly brushing it against your lips. Keeping eye contact, you lick his length from base to tip. You alternate between kissing and licking for a minute, enjoying watching Carmy squirm.
"Fuck, Honey," Carmy throws his head back at your torturous pace.
"Look at me," you sweetly say.
Taking mercy on him, you part your lips to take his length into your warm, wet mouth, bobbing your head to a steady rhythm. Prying one of Carmy's hands from the bedsheets, you place it in your hair, encouraging him to use you.
"Good girl," he moans, fisting your hair to force you to take more of his cock. You let your hands rest on his thighs, feeling the strong muscles underneath.
Carmen observes you with hooded eyes as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him expertly. He's obsessed with how your lips leave behind a tinge of red lipstick on his skin.
"Shit-Fuck me," he yells into the room when you swallow around him.
You want him to cum, but Carmy has other plans. He doesn't think he'll last long if you make him cum now, so after the stunt you pulled, he pulls you off his sensitive cock.
The sight in front of him is erotic as a string of saliva connects you to his cock. The tears lining your eyes and blushed nose add to that pretty picture.
"c'me 'ere," he says, helping you up and kissing you as he leads you back to the bed. He tugs off your wet panties, throwing them somewhere in the room.
You lay back on your pillows with Carmy slotted between your legs. It's torture having him so close and yet so far. Now that you've gotten a taste of his cock you need more.
Carmy touches the inside of your thighs, inching his way closer to your cunt. He instantly notices how fuckin' wet you are. You're dripping even more than before.
"Sucking me off, got you this wet, princess?" He asks, leaning his forehead against yours.
"Mhm, Carmy, wish you would've cum in my mouth," you admit, tilting your head up to brush your lips against his.
"You have such a dirty fuckin' mouth," he chuckles darkly.
Where did this side of you come from? You're usually so sweet and delicate. He should've known you would be a freak in bed. To think he almost let this all go.
"Carmen, please."
"Please, what?" Carmen teases, lining his cock against your opening, wetting his cock.
"Fuck me," you moan, kissing his jaw.
"'m gonna fuck you good, princess," he promises, with a shaky nod before he remembers, "Fuck! I-I don't have a condom with me."
"I should have some in my drawer," you mention breathlessly.
Carmy opens the condom in record time but is surprised when you take it from his hands and roll it down his shaft yourself. You just want an excuse to keep touching him.
With your leg hiked up, he aligns himself and slowly pushes in. You both gasp at the sensation. Carmy, for one, is trying to not bust a nut so soon because you're so tight and warm.
Meanwhile, you hold onto Carmy's back as he stretches you out. It's been so long, and your toys aren't nearly as thick as him. You breathily moan in his ear, which he takes as a good sign as he begins thrusting more forcefully and deeper.
Carmy hopes this isn't a dream, and if it is, he hopes he doesn't wake up anytime soon. He has one hand holding onto your thigh and the other holding himself up. His gold chain dangles above you as he picks his head up from its spot on your shoulder. You take the chance to tug on it, returning his attention to your lips.
"You feel so fuckin' good, princess," Carmy groans, squeezing your thigh.
"I love your cock, Carmy," you whine, feeling the drag of his cock on your walls. The pleasure is all-consuming, leaving a fuzzy feeling in your brain.
"You like when I fuck you like this?"
"Yes, yes, yes, keep going."
His hips snap hard against yours, hitting that spot each and every time. His pelvis hitting your clit. He squeezes your thigh, hips, and sides before his hand squeezes your tits, too, playing with your nipples.
Suddenly, he straightens up, pulling you down the bed to have you flushed against his pelvis. He's a sight for sore eyes that forces you to keep your eyes open.
His thrusts are more forceful like this, where he digs his fingers into the fat of your hips to pull you towards him with each snap. It makes your tits bounce, hypnotizing him.
Through your lustful gaze, he looks like a marble statue. His chest glimmers under the lowlights of your room as sweat clings to him, his chain jumping against the blushed skin of his chest, and his fucking hair falling over his pretty eyes. The set of his jaw could've been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.
Your hands indulgently reach down to touch him in any way you can. You can only reach his stomach, where a nice pair of abs appear due to the effort.
"You like what you see?" Carmy teases. He's entirely lost on you because otherwise, he wouldn't be as cocky to say that.
"You're so handsome," you pitifully say. Your brain not computing as it should, but how can it when it's being fucked out of you?
Carmy doesn't know how to respond. It's not often he's called handsome or looked at as lustfully as you're looking at him. Thankfully, he doesn't need to say much as your eyes roll back and you squeeze your walls around him.
"Carmy, I'm so close," you pant, trying to find any part of him to hold. He offers you his hand, lacing your fingers together.
"Just a little longer, princess," Carmy groans as you clench around him. "Fuck, don't do that to me."
He glances down at the spot where you and him meet to see a ring of white on the base of his cock. He's enthralled with the way you stretch to accommodate him and the way your pink walls drag along his length when he pulls out. Fuckin' beautiful.
Putting all his knowledge to use, he thumbs your clit, making you jolt. He needs you to cum now, or he won't make it. His balls feel like they're about to burst.
"Carmy," you cry out, tightening the hold on his hand.
You teeter on the edge for only a second until you cum, waves of pleasure washing over you. Carmy curses from above you as your tightening walls choke his cock, making him cum too. He stutters his hips a couple more times, riding out his orgasm.
He leans back down again, catching your lips in a small kiss. His body slowly relaxes against yours as his head rests on your neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and perfume.
"That was good," you breathe heavily, rubbing your hands up and down your back. You're just starting to think clearly.
"Fuckin' amazing," he adds.
There's a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.
A bubble encases you, and it can't be popped as long as you stay in your bedroom. Carmy doesn't want to leave; it's late already, and in a couple of hours, he has to get up and go to The Bear to repeat the process.
For once, he forgets about that and focuses solely on you. He has a couple of hours to spare. Sleep is overrated.
You face each other on the bed, talking in hushed whispers. Your fingers trace the '773' tattoo on his bicep like you've always wanted to do. It tickles Carmy, so he grabs your hand and kisses your palm.
"Now that I'm thinking about it. I didn't see your tattoo," he whispers to prevent disturbing the peace.
Your face warms at his words. You had forgotten about that. He's seen a lot of you in the past couple of hours. What's a bit more of skin?
"You missed my big bad tattoo?" you joke, poking his nose.
"Show me," he says with a lopsided smile.
You make it dramatic, rolling your eyes and giving him a big sigh. Sitting up on the bed, you peel the bed sheets from your body. Carmy props himself up on his elbow in anticipation.
Right there, on your left side and under the curve of your breast is a small outline of Winnie the Pooh's face. Carmy touches it, biting his lip to hold back a laugh. Unsurprisingly, it's precisely what he expected from you.
A few chuckles pass his lips as he pulls you back into his arms.
"Don't laugh. It made sense at the time," you whine, covering yourself back up.
Carmy pulls you to his chest, kissing your temple, "I'm sure it does. Pooh Bear loves his Honey," Just like he does.
"Exactly! Someone gets it!"
And he does because Carmy, aka The Bear, is quickly falling for his Honey.
A couple of days later, Carmy is back at your house helping you prepare the famous pizza you promised him. He lets you take the lead on everything, preferring to follow your instructions rather than let his mind run wild. It's not like you'll let him do most of the work anyway; it's your recipe, and you're protective over it.
"Can you chop up the veggies?" You ask him as you lay down the dough in a pan.
"Yes, Chef," he nods, kissing your cheek as he digs through your kitchen drawers for a knife.
"Oh, I like the sound of that," you muse, shaking your shoulders as you knead the dough to spread it.
"Don't let it get to your head, Hun," Carmy smiles, slicing the vegetables expertly.
Cooking with Carmy is surprisingly easier than you thought. He's not controlling over the kitchen or judgy. He lets you do your thing in peace, following your orders no matter how strange they might be. This is your kitchen, not his.
As you spread the sauce and cheese over one of the doughs, Carmy gets a call. He wipes his hands with a rag and picks it up. You only hear his side of the conversation.
"No, I'm off tonight. I'm with my girl. Call Sugar. She should be able to help you with that. Great. Thanks."
Carmy had promised himself that he would try to balance it all better. He has his team to help each other out. The Bear is a priority, but so are you because you help him keep whatever sanity he has left.
Carmy hangs up, and when he returns to you, he notices the grin on your lips as you put the toppings he chopped on the pizza.
"What's with the smile?" Carmy stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he props his head on your shoulder. Your hair tickles his nose, smelling the notes of coconut of your shampoo he digs his head farther into it.
"I'm your girl?" You ask, the smile still present on your face. He'd missed your initial reaction when you heard him call you 'my girl.' You almost dropped the container of pepperoni that was in your hands. It's a shock cause he never asked you to be his girl.
Carmy pauses and tenses up against you. "Uh, yes? Hold up. Turn around," he orders, as he places his hand on your hips to turn your body around.
"Yes, chef," you respond cheekily, your arms around his neck, careful not to touch his sweater with your messy hands.
"Aren't you my girl?" He frowns, rubbing a thumb over your hips.
"I could be, but I don't remember you asking," you pretend to think.
Carmy never directly asked you to be his girlfriend, and you never asked him to be your boyfriend. You might as well be a couple since you've been dating long enough. You decide to seize the opportunity now to get it out of him. Having a proper anniversary day would be nice because you hope this lasts.
"I see, my mistake," Carmy nods, catching your vibe, "Honey…"
"Yes, Carmy?" You blink innocently at him.
"Would you do me the honor of becoming my girlfriend?" He finally asks.
You could joke around but decided against it cause the moment is perfect, "I'd love to," you nod, giving him a small kiss.
When the pizza is cooked, you bring it over to the dining table. Serving Carmy a pretty slice. Excitedly, you wait for him to bite into it and taste it.
"What do you think?" You ask expectantly.
"You were right. Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy agrees with an unbelievable laugh. He's got a lot to learn from you. It's the truth, or maybe he's blinded by his feelings. Only time will tell where you and Carmy will end up.
The End?
thank you guys for pulling through and reading! i know it's a slow burn but i hope you liked it! i certainly enjoyed writing it even though it took me like 4 months.
if you liked it, i would appreciate you liking it, commenting or reblogging. if you have some feedback feel free to send it my way too. i wanna get better at this whole writing thing!
Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x pregnant!wife!doctor!f!reader
Previous | Next
Summary: Healing comes in stages.
[ My Masterlist ]
Note: ayy, this idea came while I was thinking about a one-shot/possible continuation of Heartbeat lol ended up adding this and another part. gender was a coin toss, so don’t be upset with me😊
Word Count: 3.3k
Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content
Warnings: afab!reader, some angst, foul language, pregnancy, hospital mentions, medical inaccuracies, drug mentions (Langdon), struggling with feelings, vague ptsd, some fluff, pet names (my love, sweetheart)
not beta read
The month that followed the chaos of Pittfest was not an easy one — not only was there damage control, but there was also a hell of a lot of clean up. Both physically and emotionally. You saw the blood on your hands when you closed your eyes, but you kept repeating, “I did everything I could with the resources we had”. That only worked for about a week.
Your temper flared whenever you came to be in Gloria’s company after that, and you could plainly see you were testing her patience. Hospital politics and satisfaction scores meant absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of the ED, and the budget cuts and bare-bones resources meant everything if another mass casualty event rocked Pittsburgh. You had bypassed Michael entirely when you complained about it — which left him frustrated, but more-so over the fact that you were right and Gloria was still playing politics.
While Gloria had clearly stepped up during the tragedy, she was not much help in the aftermath.
In the wake of that shift Michael had worked, you could see it still weighed on him. You hated that you had taken that day off — sure, it had been for a checkup with your OB to check on your bouncing baby boy, but you had been needed. You hated that Michael had only called for you when he started to crack, but that was the man he was. That was the man you had married, fully knowing that fact. You were lucky he called for help at all.
Despite the fact that you were both fighting for better resources and an increase in the ED budget, you both found small comforts at home. Mostly in his touch, but in a handful of new hobbies you began to start to prevent your mind from wandering too close to the horrors you saw daily. Michael took to building your baby’s crib. Then their dresser. And then a wooden rocking horse.
Whatever it took to keep his hands and mind occupied.
Jake warmed back up to Michael sometime between Leah’s funeral and your birthday that month. Jake’s guilt had manifested as disbelief at first, dissolving into anger, and finally acceptance. He had shown up to your house on your birthday with flowers and a smile, asking if Michael was home.
They both talked out on the balcony for a good chunk of the afternoon, coming back inside with smiles and quiet laughs. It made you feel worlds better.
—
“Dr. R squared!” Dana called happily when you and Michael walked in together one morning, calling the attention of all the newer faces. You were happy she had decided to stay, but she had nearly gotten the nurses union up in arms about the violence they faced, which caused a big headache for Gloria. You were thrilled.
Whitaker and Javadi exchanged glances, while Santos let out a surprised laugh.
“I knew it!”
You enjoyed keeping your personal life private, but your marriage to Michael was more of an open secret, anyways. You were professional inside the hospital, so you could see how it took them awhile to catch on.
“Damn, Dana, you ruined my bet. I had another month to go before I thought they’d catch on.” Michael said with a fake frown.
You barked a laugh, “You haven’t exactly been subtle. I win.”
“That’s gotta count as foul play.”
“A bet’s a bet, Michael.”
Since your pregnancy, Michael had hovered more and left more lingering touches on your skin, touching your back when you were helping a patient or passing in the hall.
You noticed Princess and Perlah exchange a few bills, and it was then you were certain a similar bet had taken place in the ED as well. You smirked.
“Wait…wait. You guys are married?” Whitaker asked, looking back at you, face flushing.
“Happily.” Michael supplied, tone low, heavy gaze on the poor kid.
You knew how it looked — a younger woman with a much older man. You were also very obviously pregnant. But you were proud of your marriage, and if it weren’t for the board watching how you interacted together, you would have shouted it from the rooftops.
“...but your last name..?” Javadi whispered out.
“Less confusion with my maiden name, Dana’s just proud of her little nickname,” you told her with a grin. “Plus, the Pitt only has room for one Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Should I take offense to that?” Michael asked with an amused raise of an eyebrow.
You only smirked at him, before moving to put your things behind the charge desk.
“Alright, everyone back to work.” Michael said, following after you to put his bag down. “Residents, I want your reports.”
Michael quickly fell into his role as Chief ED Attending, and you fell into yours, moving to triage as you usually did at the start of your shift. You had a good eye for finding cases that could very easily slip into critical, and you had a knack for clearing away the cases that definitely did not need to be in the ED clogging up chairs. Sniffles, papercuts, and symptoms better suited for their primary care physician rather than the hospital.
Sliding in next to Michael to drop off a tablet, you smirked at him, “So…what’s for dinner tonight?”
Your bet had consisted of who was going to make dinners for the next month and Michael had lost. You were looking forward to not having to worry about that for a month, seeing as typically you and Michael traded off or cooked together.
His eyes still on his computer, he frowned, “I was thinking take-out.”
“Sore loser.”
He smirked, “Thai?”
“How dare you use my cravings against me.” You scoffed with a smile.
He looked at you fondly, eyes going back to the screen, “I’ll even get you ice cream after.”
You huffed, trying to maintain a frown, “I accept only if it’s a cinnamon roll from Grandview.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. Grandview Bakery was wildly out of the way, but you had been craving the sweet treat for days.
“What? It’s for your son, not me.”
Michael grinned and relented, agreeing to your terms.
—
Michael opened up to you about that shift two weeks later, on a quiet evening in. You were attempting to knit a small hat, but one of the rows had gotten uneven forcing you to backtrack. Your feet were in Michael’s lap while he watched a Penguins game, hand absentmindedly running along your leg.
“I think the choice I made with Adamson is still affecting me.” He said, not looking at you.
You glanced up at him, “It was a choice you never should have had to make.”
“Who else?” His brown eyes met yours, filled with a sadness that broke your heart. “Who else could have made it?”
Adamson had been a mentor figure to you as well, but not to the extent he had been for Michael. They had met a handful of years after Michael’s residency at Big Charity in New Orleans, and he had taken him under his wing. He had learned a lot from Adamson in the nearly fifteen years they spent together, while you had only known Adamson for a quarter of that, before he passed.
“It shouldn’t have been you.” You stressed again, putting your knitting aside. “But it was. That little girl ended up living, and Adamson would’ve been proud of you. In fact, if he saw the man you are today, I know he would be.”
Tears came, his face scrunched up and you moved forward to hold him. It was not the hysterical, fully body sobs you had seen in the Peds room after trying to save Leah, but it still burrowed its way into your chest. You curled yourself around his body, pulling him as close as your bump would allow and let him cry.
“I remember all their faces, I remember all of them.” He whispered into your neck, your skin wet from his tears.
Your own tears came, and you held him tighter, feeling heartache for how haunted your husband had become.
It was a reality you faced as well, and while you had never properly learned of a way to deal with it, you frequently found you had it mostly under control. But Pittfest? It had torn through your coping mechanisms like they were paper, leaving zero time to compartmentalize, and left you open and vulnerable by the time you began to process it all.
“I know.” You got out. “I’m here.”
Recognition was the only thing you could give him. Empty promises and sweet words had no place here; you could not placate him with a solution, because you had none to give. You only held him and did not let go, knowing that would be enough. All he needed was an anchor to help him weather the storm in his mind.
Michael moved from your grasp sometime later that evening, having held onto you long after he stopped crying. You had kissed along the parts of him you could reach, the length of his shoulder, the shell of his ear.
His eyes were red when he moved to sit up, still holding you close. He pulled you effortlessly into his lap, resting a hand on your bump and finally looking at you.
“Langdon was stealing benzos.” He told you, voice quiet and raw.
You blinked at him. You had known something had happened with Frank — Michael had taken him under his wing not long after he had started his residency in the Pitt. After the tragedy that had happened at Pittfest, Langdon had gone to rehab, putting his residency on hold.
“He was what?” You searched Michael’s eyes. You figured there was a drug problem if he was opting for rehab, but stealing from the ED? That was a whole other can of worms.
“Santos noticed some irregularities.” He said simply. “He avoided it when I confronted him. Found librium in his locker from Louie.”
“Not just stealing…but stealing from patients?” You asked, nausea rolling around in your gut. You had trusted Frank, helped him whenever possible. You had even hung out with his wife a few times.
Michael nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. “I let him leave when I found them…I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t know what I was going to do, I barely had time to think before Pittfest happened and then he was just back. I was still worried about Jake, and everything else, and I let him stay. He was probably fucking high and I let him stay.”
You processed his words slowly. Even in the chaos, you had noticed a palpable shift between Michael and Langdon, a tension that (at the time) you were sure was due to them butting heads over a patient earlier in the shift.
You had trusted him, with your own patients, and it made you sick to think he might have taken advantage of that trust to score drugs.
You swallowed your thoughts, “We needed all hands on deck.”
It was a rationalization and not a very good one.
Michael saw right through it. “I compromised patient care because I was too fucking overwhelmed.”
“So, what? You were going to cause a scene right in the middle of all that shit? Take everyone’s attention away from patient care?” You asked, voice harder, “You were stuck between a rock and a hard place. If any one of the residents or nurses felt he wasn’t making the right decisions, they would’ve told you. Or Abbott. Or me.”
Silence came over you as you held each other’s gaze. He brought a hand to rub across his face, a long breath escaping him. You moved one hand to the back of his head, to fiddle with his hair.
“I told him before I left that he could either go to rehab or I would report my findings to the board.” He said to you after a few minutes.
Going to the board would have effectively ended Langdon’s career. Though, he took that risk when he started stealing from the ED.
“I’m glad he chose rehab.” You admitted quietly.
“Me too.”
It went unspoken that you both had no idea how you would navigate him returning to the Pitt, trust torn to shreds — forcing him to start even below square one. How would he gain back your trust? The care you had shown him? How could you trust him after all of it?
Did you even want to?
You moved your hand to play with Michael’s fingers, eyes on your hands.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about names recently,” you started, only glancing at him while your cheeks heated.
“The world doesn’t need a Michael Jr.”
A quiet laugh rushed through your nose, “Don’t be so self centered.” You looked at him. “I was thinking Adam.”
All the air escaped Michael’s lungs, watching you while water blurred his vision, but he did not cry.
“I like that one a lot.”
Adam Robinavitch.
—
It was easy enough to warm up to the new med students, intern, and year two resident after several shifts together. Though Santos had a habit of rubbing you the wrong way — far too cocky for your liking, frequently taking unnecessary risks without consulting her senior resident or any of the attendings. You felt she was better suited for surgery, lacking the kind of empathy the ED required. But she grew on you. Like a weed.
Javadi reminded you too much of yourself, thrown into the world of medicine at an early age. You were no prodigy, but you started earlier than most had. While she was textbook, you were hands on, and you thought to bring her under your wing — to help her in the areas you knew she needed. She steadily got better at patient interactions under your careful supervision.
You found Whitaker endearing, but he frequently internalized too much of the job. You had learned in passing from Collins that he had taken his first patient death particularly hard — but so had you, and most attendings you knew. He was kind and patient, knew not to linger, and was eager to get his hands dirty, even if he was a little insecure and clumsy at times.
And Mel King? You quickly grew a soft spot for her. She was capable and knowledgeable, and you quickly began to rely on her as you once had with Langdon. You could see her rolling with the punches, but in the quiet moments, you would see her take a moment for herself. It made you think that out of all the newcomers, she would be best suited for the ED. The Pitt needed more attendings who had healthy coping mechanisms rather than the Robinavitch-Abbot Method of Bury Your Feelings Until You Die.
In the latter months of your pregnancy, you leaned more heavily on the residents as Michael became more and more overbearing. With the uptick in violence against staff and no budget to get more security, you could understand the restlessness he had.
Michael would come running even if a patient or family member so much as raised their voice at you, or in your general vicinity. You appreciated your husband being near, but his careful gaze made you feel like you were being watched. You nearly made the decision to switch to nights, but you knew Abbott would not have been much different.
He just would have been more subtle.
You knew he would have been hurt by your decision, especially if you did not run it by him first, so you opted to do the only rational thing: talk to him.
Easier said than done.
You opted to not bring it up during your shift, knowing you did not want your personal life to bleed onto the job any more than it already had.
In the quiet of the car, more of a necessity now with how far along you were (though you missed your walks together), you broached the topic carefully. Michael didn’t need kid gloves, but you knew his concern was coming from a good place, and you did not want him to think you didn’t appreciate it.
“My love,” You started, turning down the R&B station, rubbing anxious circles on your belly.
He hummed simply to let you know you had his attention, moving one hand from the steering wheel to grab ahold of yours.
Hey, you’ve been increasingly overbearing and making me doubt myself as a doctor? No.
Hey, I’ve noticed you hover a lot more recently and it makes me antsy? Better, but no.
You really need to cool it? Definitely not.
“I’ve really appreciated all the concern you’ve shown whenever I have a difficult patient, and I’m grateful you have my back, trust me, but it’s edging on just too much, I think.”
“You’re my wife, I’m always going to worry about you.”
“I’ve been your wife for almost four years, Mike. You were never like this before I was pregnant. I’m not asking for you to not worry about me at all, but I would appreciate it if you relaxed, just a little. It makes me feel like you’re doubting me as a doctor rather than protecting me as your wife.”
He frowned as he digested it.
Did he use to step in before when someone got particularly aggressive? Yes. Was he always there when you needed? Of course. But it had increased tenfold since you first found out you were pregnant.
“I feel like there’s got to be some middle ground here.” You said after he stayed silent.
He pulled the car into the driveway, turning the car off before resting back in his seat. You stared ahead to the bricks of your townhouse.
“After Dana got hit, I realized how easily it could’ve been you had you been working. You would have been dealing with him in triage. I never would have forgiven myself.” He paused to swallow thickly. “And Pittfest…with Jake — it just takes a fucking moment for someone you love to be ripped away from you. With what we do every day, I never wanted you to be at any risk. I figured if I could put myself in the middle…if I could shield you, you would be safe. I never want anything to jeopardize your life or our son’s life. I don’t—I couldn’t—”
You grabbed his hand, processing just how badly that shift had affected him. You knew it would have a lasting impact, but now you understood just how great. Of course he would become more protective after that shift, how had you not put it together sooner?
“I didn’t really think about it like that.” You told him quietly. This was his way of dealing with that shift.
He intertwined your fingers, brushing a thumb over the wedding band you wore to work (your pretty engagement ring sat safe from the grime of your job in a jewelry box, which you wore whenever you were not working). You squeezed his hand, pulling his attention back to your face.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m being overbearing or doubting you. I just can’t lose you.” He told you.
“And you won’t, my love. I’m here.” You brought his hand up to kiss the back of it. “We’re gonna get through this.”
He released a long breath, “Just promise you’ll come to me if you need me.”
It went unsaid that this was his way of promising you the same.
“Promise. Don’t get me wrong, the protective husband thing is really hot. Just perhaps a bit more of a subtle approach would be better.”
He met your eyes with a tiny quirk in his brow, “I can work with that.”
“Through thick and thin, yeah?”
A soft smile formed, “Through thick and thin, sweetheart.”
[ Next ]
want to join any of my tag lists? feel free to shoot me a message!
All Dr. Robby Content: @cherriready @kittenhawkk @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy
Dr. Adamson’s first name is Montgomery (according to a screen grab of the plaque), and well, I couldn’t work with that, so that’s how I settled on Adam lol
Will I be writing something about last night’s episode? Yes, yes I will. (two, possibly three, parts planned already oof who gave me free-will??)
Rating: Explicit/18+/MDNI (smut, language)
Word count: ~3,300
Tags: reader insert, female reader, no use of y/n, married, established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, workplace sex, workplace quickie, p in v sex, no beta
Summary: A new resident decides to flirt with you, oblivious to the fact that you're married to his senior attending. Your husband isn't a fan.
Or, you and jealous Robby have a little workplace quickie.
Notes: Just a random little dose of silly workplace smut. Reader is a female ob/gyn but no age is established. Meant to take place a few years after S1.
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
The emergency department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center bustles with its typical controlled chaos. It’s a Friday afternoon and you’d be lying if you said your mind isn’t on your weekend plans as you wander into the ER for a pregnancy case.
You smile at familiar faces as you make your way past the nurses’ station, offering a friendly wave at Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker before you dip inside Room 6.
“Who is that?” Gavin Meyer asks as he doesn’t bother to conceal his pitiful stare. He’s an R3 transfer in his first week at The Pitt.
“Oh, that’s R-”
Gavin is too busy gawking after you to notice Trinity pinching Dennis’ arm behind the desk, stopping him from finishing his sentence.
“She’s an OB,” Trinity cuts in.
“She’s stunning,” Gavin breathes. Dennis’ eyes go wide as Trinity bites back a snort. “Is she single?”
“She’s a little out of your league,” Trinity responds slowly.
“Oh, come on,” Gavin pleads. “The least you can do is introduce me. What if I get an OB case?”
“Introduce yourself,” Trinity answers. “She doesn’t bite… that I know of.” Dennis merely opens and closes his mouth, like a fish in moral despair.
Gavin’s posture straightens as the door to Room 6 reopens, but it’s Dr. Robby who emerges.
“Everything good here?” he asks as he strides behind the central desk.
“All good,” Trinity answers with a chipper tone. “Just helping Meyers get acclimated to some of the faces around here.”
“Good,” Dr. Robby replies as he glances at Gavin. “Don’t be afraid to introduce yourself to people, get to know them. We’re all here to help.”
Dr. Robby doesn’t realize his words are going to bite him in about 20 seconds, when you emerge from Room 6 and make a beeline to the group at the desk.
“Hey,” you greet Trinity and Dennis. “How’s it going?”
“Hi,” Gavin immediately interjects with an outstretched hand. It catches you off guard, but you recover smoothly and offer him a kind smile. “I’m Dr. Meyer. R3.”
“Nice to meet you,” you say politely. “I’m Dr.-”
“Dr. Robby!” Samira Mohan appears from Trauma Room 1 with impeccable, albeit accidental, timing. “We need you in here! Whitaker, you too!”
“Come on.” Dennis motions for Gavin to follow him, leaving you with Trinity.
“New resident,” you muse as you watch them scurry away. “He’s cute.” Trinity lifts an eyebrow at you and you snort. “Oh please,” you add. “I promise I’m not interested. I’m a married woman, after all.”
You return upstairs to the birthing ward until you inevitably get called back down to the ER. This time, it’s for a newborn who had been discharged the previous day.
Gavin is alone when you pass the nurses’ desk to leave. You offer him a smile and a nod.
“Hey, I didn’t get your name earlier,” he says quickly, stopping you in your tracks. You blink at him in confusion.
“The others didn’t tell you?” you ask with narrowed eyes. It's not that you assume everyone in the hospital knows you and your husband, but well, they do.
“No.”
“Oh,” you say as the realization settles. Fucking Santos. She’s done this before, but you can’t help but play along. You give Gavin your first name, intentionally omitting the last, and lean against the desk to strike up more conversation with him, at least until Trinity can return and break the bad news to Gavin. “So, what brings you to Pittsburgh?” you ask casually. “I assume you’re a transfer?”
“Transferred from Charlotte,” Gavin responds. “I help take care of my grandmother. Needed to be closer to her.”
“Ah, I see,” you say kindly. “I’m sure she’s glad to have you around. Are the two of you close?”
“We are,” Gavin says. “She’s the reason I got into medicine. She was a nurse.”
You catch his eyes flickering toward your left hand in search of a ring. You don’t wear yours at work – not because you want to appear single, but because you’d die if you lost the precious diamond ring you were gifted three years ago.
“That’s wonderful,” you offer, your eyes catching a glimpse of Dr. Robby, who has emerged from Trauma Room 2. The two of you lock eyes for a fleeting moment before you return your attention to Gavin. “I bet your grandmother’s so proud of you,” you continue.
“She is,” Gavin says happily. You can feel Robby’s gaze burning into the side of your head, but Gloria corners him before he can insert himself into your conversation with Gavin. From your spot by the desk, you watch from the corner of your eye in pure amusement while Robby and Gloria bicker about some administrative nonsense.
Meanwhile, Gavin turns up the charm. He leans closer to you as he speaks, eyes dancing over your features in clear interest.
“So, are you from Pittsburgh?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No, Cleveland,” you answer. “But I did my residency here and obviously never left.”
“I take it you like Pittsburgh then?”
You offer a smile and a shrug. “It’s pretty alright,” you answer. “The people here at the hospital are great and the city’s not so bad. Where did you grow up?”
“I grew up in Richmond, Virginia,” Gavin replies. “So I’m pretty new to Pittsburgh.”
Robby’s face is turning red. You can see his agitation swelling as Gloria prattles on. He crosses and uncrosses his arms impatiently, unable to suppress a grunt of annoyance.
“Well, welcome,” you continue, offering Gavin a gentle touch to the forearm. “I’m sure you’ll adjust and grow to love it here.”
“Would be better if I had someone to show me around,” Gavin says. He trails off and waits, eyes studying you for a reaction, begging you to take the bait. You know this game all too well. It’s not the first time a resident has flirted with you, and you secretly hope it won’t be the last. Not because you’re actually trying to flirt, nor are you even seeking attention; you merely enjoy the entertainment in an otherwise predictable environment. And you know others, like Trinity, need the amusement, too.
That’s why you flash Gavin a bright smile and feign surprise at his suggestion. “I’d be happy to show you some cool spots sometime,” you say just loud enough for people around the desk to hear. That includes Robby, Gloria, Perlah and Trinity.
“Really? That’d be great,” Gavin says, his eyes scanning yours for any sort of sign to indicate mutual interest.
You don’t dare look at Robby; you know better. But everyone else nearby is treating this like live theater, and they can see the tightness in his jaw, clenched so hard he might crack his teeth.
“Of course,” you tell Gavin innocently. “In fact, we could make it a group thing.” You try not to laugh as Gavin’s expression immediately falls, but you know you can't lead him on or give him the wrong idea. “A bunch of us here at the hospital have been trying to make plans to go out for months now. This would be as good a reason as any to actually put a plan in motion.”
“Oh,” Gavin says, his lips thinning in disappointment. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Awesome,” you say merrily. “Sounds like fun.”
“Dr. Meyer,” Robby’s voice cuts in. He’s finally managed to shrug off Gloria, who has turned her attention to a conversation with Dana. “Don’t you have any patients to check on?” Robby asks, his voice gruff.
“Oh, right,” Gavin says, clearly fearful of angering Robby. He sneaks a glance at you and smiles. “Hopefully I'll see you later.”
You wave after him before you finally dare to look Robby in the eyes. He peers at you from behind his glasses, but you can see a storm swarming in his irises.
“Everything alright, Dr. Robinavitch?” you ask innocently, tilting your head to the side as you gaze at him.
“Actually, no,” Robby answers curtly. “It seems people think the ER is a place to meet hot singles, considering all the flirting happening in front of me.”
You snort as you push off from the desk’s edge, preparing to retreat to the elevator. “I don’t see any hot singles,” you laugh as you turn your back. You stride toward the elevator, unaware that Robby has vacated the desk area to reach you in record time.
“Not so fast,” he growls in your ear as you jump in surprise. His fingers curl around your forearm as he redirects you from Elevator 2 toward a vacant bathroom. His eyes sweep over the corridor to ensure no one’s around before he nudges you into the bathroom.
“Real professional, Dr. Robinavitch,” you deadpan, crossing your arms as you peer up at him in annoyance while he turns the lock. You want to appear tough, but you also know you and Robby are probably a comical sight, given the way his tall, broad frame looms over you.
“You want to talk about professionalism?” he rasps with raised eyebrows. “You’re the one flirting with my residents in my ER.”
“I don’t flirt with residents,” you fire back, your lips parting in an amused smile. “They flirt with me.”
“You think this is funny?” Robby steps closer to you but you hold your ground and his gaze with conviction, daring him to act.
“I find it rather hilarious,” you muse. "You're jealous." Robby reaches swiftly, fisting a ball of your hair with his hand as he forces you backward. You realize he isn’t doing so for the power – he’s ensuring your head doesn’t smash against the wall behind you. Leave it to him to look out for your safety, even when he’s trying to assert his dominance.
“That resident is disrespecting me in my own ER,” Robby continues as he presses you against the wall. “And you’re the instigator.”
“Don’t blame me!” you laugh. “I didn’t ask him to develop a crush on me. I only just met the guy today.”
“He doesn’t seem to know who you are.”
“He knows what I do here.”
“But does he know you’re married?” Robby juts his hips forward through the last word for emphasis. You can feel your thigh muscles tense with arousal.
“No idea,” you quip with a shrug. “Our conversation hasn’t gone that far.”
“Seems like someone ought to mention it to him.”
“By all means, be my guest.”
“I will.” Robby continues to eye you and he can’t help but chuckle at your determined expression. “You love this, don’t you?”
“I do,” you admit cheekily. You snake your arms around his torso, your chin resting against his chest as you smile innocently upward at him. Robby presses a kiss to your forehead and returns the smile.
“You’re evil,” he rasps.
“I’ll make it up to you later,” you coo.
“Later? No, babe. You’ll do it now.”
Your eyes widen as his words catch you off guard. It’s not like Robby to do something so forbidden inside the sanctity of his precious ER. But ever since you got married, he’s relaxed; he’s not so uptight, not as agitated and not nearly as miserable to be around. He’s returned to his former self, much to the relief of everyone who works with him.
“Right now?” you repeat to ensure you heard him correctly.
“That’s what I said.” Robby leans in to press his lips to their favorite spot against your neck. Your eyes immediately fall shut as you inhale sharply, still surprised by Robby’s behavior. Sure, you’ve flirted and exchanged a suggestive touch every now and again, but you’ve never crossed the boundary of engaging in explicit activities at work. You’ve thought about it plenty of times, but you always assumed Robby was all business and no pleasure when it came to work, and you didn’t bother to challenge that.
Today, however, is clearly different. Because today, he can’t stand the sight of that pompous and obnoxious resident ogling you like the final piece of candy in the dish. Besides, Michael Robinavitch has never been one to back down from a challenge.
He kisses you slowly, to remind you that this is all rooted in love and adoration, despite his annoyance with Gavin’s behavior – and despite his desperation to remind you of your marital vows. Not that you need the reminder – you’d torch the world to ash and embers before you dared to risk your marriage.
“Awfully on edge today, are we?” you tease.
“Awfully mouthy today, are we?” Robby retorts. You grin at him.
“You already know what this mouth can do.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You can feel his hard cock pressing against your stomach. But you can also feel your time alone running out. Your absence from the ER won’t be noticed – though you really should return to the birthing ward – but Robby’s will. You were one code blue from interruption.
Your hands find the belt of Robby’s cargo pants and you work quickly to free his cock from them. He lets out a low grunt as your hands wrap around him and stroke, though he’s already fully erect. You begin to sink to your knees, but his hand curls around your wrist to stop you.
“Later. You can do that later,” he rasps.
He steers you by the wrist toward the sink, where he stands behind you, his reflection’s gaze meeting yours in the mirror as he pins you against the cool porcelain. His eyes swarm with desire. He tugs your scrub bottoms to the floor and you can feel his fingers inch their way into the waistband of your panties. Before those also find the floor, Robby presses a trail of kisses down the back of your neck, ending at your shoulder.
When he hooks an arm around you to press two fingers against your clit, he hisses in your ear as he feels how wet you are. You become spineless against him.
“Walking around my ER like that?” he says in your ear as he sinks his fingers inside you. “You’re bad.”
He supports himself with one hand flat against the wall as he uses the other to guide his cock inside you.
“Fuck, Michael,” you whine, but he stops to smirk at your reflection.
“You love this, don’t you?” he murmurs as he watches your teeth drag against your own bottom lip. You whimper in response, your walls clenching around him in a silent plea for more. He obliges you, filling you with his cock until it reaches the hilt. He groans at the tight heat that contrasts the cool bathroom.
He begins to thrust until you’re bent over the sink, fighting to stifle your broken moans. He keeps you upright with one arm, and as you sneak a glance at your own reflection, you realize you look absolutely pitiful – eyes glassy, cheeks flushed and lips parted as the man behind you turns you into a ruined, fucked out mess.
Your white knuckles match the porcelain as you grip the sides of the sink, the pressure inside your core mounting.
“God, M-Michael,” you manage through a pathetic stutter. He drives his cock upward into your sweet spot until you’re gasping over how good it feels. You’re on the brink of a climax and Robby is watching it all unfold in the mirror. He stares back at you with such intensity, you have to look away.
Your back arches and you push your hips backward as Robby continues to drive into you, murmuring absolute filth in your ear. Your eyes flutter shut as you focus on the mounting release within your walls. When Robby’s stare searches for yours in the mirror, he sinks his fingers into your open mouth, eliciting an unsuspecting gasp.
“Open your eyes,” he demands. “I want you to watch me fuck you.”
It’s not an ask, and you nod silently in submission, his fingers still in your mouth. Robby groans at the vision before him in the mirror, which looks more like framed art to him; your bottom lip now raw and red from your teeth, your pleading eyes and shaking arms struggling to support you. It’s a portrait Robby’s committing to memory, a masterpiece he'll name Sin Incarnate.
Your legs are ready to give out but Robby’s now got both hands clutching your hips as he fucks you closer to your grand finale. Your whimpers chorus higher, threatening to breach the privacy of the bathroom door to passerby, but you’re too cock-drunk to care.
Robby rolls his hips until his thrusts become erratic, a sign you’ve come to recognize of his approaching climax. His eyes study yours in the mirror until he sees the familiar expression indicating your own orgasm.
“Come on,” he coaches you. “Come for me.”
You hum in response, tightening your cunt around his cock as it pounds against your front wall.
“Oh, fuck,” you manage as it triggers your release. It starts with a sharp cry and ends with you slumped over the sink, desperate to prolong the final quivers within your walls. Robby thrusts so hard, your feet nearly lift off the floor, your final pulses coaxing his own completion.
He swears loudly as he comes, his hips pinning you against the sink while you watch his head tilt backward in the mirror. He spills inside you, your weak legs struggling to keep you standing while your thighs become slick.
When he’s done, Robby’s frame is no longer tense. He rests his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping you in an embrace as his primal mood shifts to something much more docile.
“You okay?” he asks. You nod, still recovering from your post-orgasm haze. Your eyelids are heavy as you peer back at him in the mirror and he smiles fondly at you.
“We should get back to work,” you note. “It’s probably chaos out there without you.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Robby replied before he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Except Meyer.”
“Cut him some slack,” you laugh as you both begin to redress. “He’s harmless.”
“He’s a punk.”
“He didn’t know we’re married.”
“Did you forget to mention your last name when you introduced yourself?”
“I may have… left it out,” you say as you flash Robby a sheepish smile. He checks himself in the mirror and shoots you a look as he moves to the door.
“I'll make sure he knows exactly who you are.” He steps into the corridor and disappears as the door snaps shut. You make sure you’re presentable again before you emerge about two minutes later.
You mosey toward the central desk to check if there are any more OB cases before you head upstairs. Robby is standing there with Dana and Gavin.
“Hey you,” she says cheerily. “Heard you’ve got a fun weekend planned.”
You open your mouth to reply when someone calls, “Dr. Robinavitch!”
“Yeah?” you and Robby respond in unison as you both turn toward the source of the sound. It’s Trinity, who’s smiling smugly as she emerges from Room 1.
“Wait,” Gavin says, his eyes shifting back and forth between you and Robby until he studies you with a furrowed brow. “Your last name is Robinavitch, too?”
“Mmhmm,” you answer as Dana backs away slowly to avoid a laughing outburst.
“As in… Mrs. Robinavitch?”
“That’s me.”
Gavin’s mouth falls open as he looks between you and Robby in horror. Robby clears his throat and checks his watch.
“Well would you look at that,” Robby says. “It’s 4 o’clock and I’m off early today. I’m taking my wife to the Finger Lakes to celebrate our wedding anniversary.”
He drapes an arm over your shoulders and steers you from the desk, leaving Trinity and Dana in stitches and Gavin in crisis.
Hii, I’m Alex, 24, she/her/hers, Mexican-American, a girl with many tastes and obsessions, welcome to my page, I hope you enjoy what you read ! 🫶🫶 all are welcome ❤️
Majority of my writing is about Dr. Robby x female reader - unless stated otherwise, my main theme is SMUT 🔞MDNI🔞 with some fluff, angst and other themes mixed in, novice writer.
Noah Wyle enthusiast
Requests - OPEN 🫶
‼️chapters 18 & 19 do contain mentions of SH/SI‼️
- “Let’s Make That Lie, Real Life” Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader *LONG but complete series* SMUT, angst, fluff
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9
Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 9K
Tags: Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
The automatic doors slide open with their familiar hiss.
Phones ring somewhere behind the nurses’ station while stretchers roll through the department with practiced urgency. Cardiac monitors beep in uneven rhythms, conversations overlapping from every direction.
Nothing has changed since the last time you were there, which somehow makes this feel even worse.
You stand just inside the entrance for a moment, adjusting the strap of your purse against your shoulder.
Twenty-seven weeks. Just one routine OB appointment.
Normally, Michael takes every appointment day off. Today isn’t one of those days.
“Meet me at the Pitt,” he’d told you that morning. “I’ll take a break and go with you.”
It sounded simple enough. Now, standing in the middle of his workplace again, you’re questioning every decision that brought you here.
Your last visit hadn’t exactly been subtle.
You’d walked into the emergency department, found Michael in front of half the staff, and loudly informed everyone that he had married you in Las Vegas, gotten you pregnant, and left you alone naked in a hotel room.
Heat creeps up your neck. “Maybe I should’ve just met him at the office.”
Your hand slips into your pocket, already reaching for your phone. You can still text him.
Actually, never mind. I’ll meet you there.
You haven’t even unlocked your screen before a voice carries across the department.
“Well, I’ll be damned, look what the cat dragged in.”
You freeze.
A blonde woman in navy scrubs looks up from the nurses’ station. Her hair is neatly pulled back, a stethoscope draped around her neck, her nurse leader badge clipped to the front of her scrub top. She somehow looks completely at ease in the middle of the chaos.
Her smile widens. “I was wondering when we’d see you again, Mrs. Robinavitch.”
A laugh escapes somewhere between amused and mortified. “Mrs. Robinavitch, huh?”
Dana smiles. “Well, technically.”
You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “So everyone remembers.”
Dana gives you an amused look. “Honey, you walked into a busy emergency department and announced the guy running the place was your runaway husband. That’s not exactly forgettable.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh. “I was kind of hoping I’d been replaced by somebody else’s workplace scandal.”
Dana laughs. “Nice try.” She steps away from the nurses’ station and offers her hand. “I’m Dana, by the way. We never actually got around to introducing ourselves.”
You shake it. “It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Likewise.” Only then does her gaze drift to the gentle curve beneath your shirt. Her smile softens. “Well,” she says warmly. “Somebody’s gotten bigger.”
Almost instinctively, your hand settles over your stomach. “They’ve definitely made themselves at home.”
“I’ll bet.” She gives your hand a quick squeeze before slipping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a brief side hug that carefully avoids your stomach. “There.”
She steps back with a satisfied nod. “Now quit standing there looking like you’re planning your escape.”
You laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She gestures toward the entrance. “I’ve been doing this too long. I can spot that look from across the parking lot.”
You rub the back of your neck, glancing around the department. “In hindsight…” You sigh. “Announcing my entire personal life to an emergency department probably wasn’t my finest moment.”
Dana barks out a laugh. “Probably not.”
“I’ve replayed that day in my head more times than I’d like to admit.”
“Don’t.”
You look up. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She leans against the counter, folding her arms. “This is an emergency department.” She motions toward the organized chaos around you. “We meet people on some of the worst days of their lives. Nobody walked away from that thinking less of you.”
A trauma team hurries past. Someone calls for respiratory. An overhead page crackles through the speakers.
“You were having one of those days.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “You could say that.”
“Honey, nobody expected you to stroll in here smiling after finding out you were married, pregnant, and your husband had disappeared.”
You look down with a quiet laugh. “For what it’s worth…” Your thumb absently traces the strap of your purse. “I really was out of my mind that day.”
Dana snorts. “Oh,” She smiles. “We noticed.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “I still can’t believe I did that.”
“And yet…” Dana shrugs. “It wouldn’t even crack the top twenty craziest things I’ve seen happen in this department.”
“I find that both comforting and deeply concerning.”
“It should.” She grins. “I’ve been screamed at. I’ve had things thrown at me. I’ve been called names I can’t repeat.” She pauses. “And one guy tried to bite Robby.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“He missed.”
A genuine laugh escapes your lips. “Well good for him.”
Dana laughs with you. “So trust me, nobody here is judging you.”
You tilt your head. “I feel like that’s only partially true.”
“Okay.” Dana admits with a grin. “We’re definitely still laughing about it.”
You groan, covering your face with one hand. “I knew it.”
“But we’re laughing at Robby.”
You lower your hand. “Michael?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She chuckles to herself. “I’ve worked with that man long enough that I don’t even want to count the years.”
A fond smile settles across her face.
“I’ve seen him keep his cool through traumas, mass casualties, families screaming at him, residents panicking…” She shrugs. “I’ve seen him in situations that would’ve rattled just about anybody.”
Her grin widens. “I have never seen Michael Robinavitch look as completely lost as he did when you walked through those doors.”
A reluctant smile tugs at your lips. “I guess I did that.”
“You really did.” Dana’s smile softens. “He came back from his sabbatical,” Her gaze turns toward the treatment rooms. “We were all just glad to have him home.” Her smile returns. “Then one afternoon his pregnant wife walked into the emergency department and announced he’d accidentally gotten married in Las Vegas.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Michael so speechless.”
You laugh. “That look on his face was exactly why I wanted to smack him.”
Dana smiles knowingly. “See? I knew that look. He wasn’t playing dumb.” She shakes her head, laughing softly. “He was trying to figure out how his life had unraveled in about thirty seconds.”
You smile, shaking your head. “That somehow makes it worse.”
The two of you laugh together, the memory somehow funnier now than it had ever seemed at the time.
The tightness in your chest finally begins to ease. Your eyes drift toward the elevators.
“I can entertain myself for a few minutes. I’ll just wait over there until Michael comes down. He said he’d meet me here so we could go to my appointment together.”
Dana looks at you like you’d suggested standing outside in the rain. “Oh, absolutely not.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re waiting with me.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I am a fully grown adult.”
“I know.”
A mischievous smile spreads across her face as she hooks her arm through yours. “That’s why I’m kidnapping you.”
Before you can protest, she steers you toward the nurses’ station.
“C’mon.”
You have a feeling you aren’t getting out of this quietly.
The emergency department carries on around you. A resident hurries past with a chart tucked beneath one arm. Two nurses work together to settle an agitated patient outside one of the trauma bays. Someone calls for an ultrasound machine while a monitor chimes somewhere down the hall.
Life in the emergency department doesn’t stop just because someone walks through the front doors. Still enough people notice.
Dana rests her forearms on the counter. “Princess.”
Princess hums without looking up from the chart in front of her. “Hm?”
Dana steps to the side. “Look who stopped by.”
Princess glances up. At first, she just looks confused. Then she actually sees you. Her eyes widen. “No.”
Dana doesn’t say a word. She simply watches, a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Princess looks from your face to the curve of your stomach and back again. “No,” she says again, already laughing. “You’re kidding.”
You can’t help smiling. “I’m afraid not.”
Princess stares another second, then points at you like she’s just solved a mystery. “You’re Robby’s Vegas wife.”
A laugh escapes before you can stop it.
“Well,” you shrug. “I guess that’s my official title now.”
“Pretty much.”
Dana’s grin only grows.
Princess immediately twists toward the nurse beside her. “Perlah.”
“Hm?”
“Look up.”
Perlah barely lifts her head at first. “If this is another dog—”
Her eyes find you. The rest of the sentence dies somewhere in the middle. “Oh, shit.”
Princess beams, looking far too pleased with herself.
“I told you Robby wouldn’t be able to hide her forever.”
Perlah mutters something in a different language you couldn’t understand, still looking at you. Then a smile slowly pulls across her face.
“So this is Mrs. Robinavitch.”
You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I think I like ‘Vegas Wife’ better.”
Princess grins. “Lucky for you, so do we.”
Dana gives you an apologetic smile that isn’t apologetic in the slightest. “Once this department gives you a nickname, it tends to stick.” She pats the empty chair. “Now tell us how you’ve been.”
You settle onto the chair, letting your purse rest beside your feet.
Dana gestures toward your stomach. “How far along are you now?”
“Twenty-seven weeks.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Already?”
You nod. “As of yesterday.”
“How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been good.”
Princess gives you a look that clearly says, ‘That’s it?’
“That’s the boring answer.”
You laugh. “It’s the honest one.”
Dana shakes her head. “No, that’s the polite answer.”
Princess points at you. “We all work in healthcare. You can’t get away with that here. Tell the truth.”
You glance between the three of them before letting out a defeated sigh.
“Fine… My back hurts all the time.” You hold up a finger. “My feet swell if I stand too long.” Another finger. “Rolling over in bed has somehow become a three-step process.” A third. “I haven’t slept through the night in weeks because somebody apparently thinks three in the morning is the perfect time to practice gymnastics.”
Dana nods along with each complaint. “Mm-hmm.”
“Heartburn?” Perlah asks.
You point at her. “Constantly.”
Dana winces sympathetically. “Pelvic pain?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Short of breath?”
You sigh. “Going up the stairs is becoming a group project.”
Dana laughs. “Now that’s twenty-seven weeks.” She tilts her head. “So…” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “How’s Dad Robby doing?”
You blink. “Dad Robby?”
Princess shrugs. “That’s what we’ve been calling him.”
You can’t help but let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, Dad Robby wants to lock me up in a bubble.”
Dana smiles knowingly. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“No.” You shake your head. “You don’t understand.”
Princess leans forward. “Oh, this should be good.”
“I dropped a spoon last week.”
Nobody says a word. Three expectant faces stare back at you.
“I bent over to pick it up.”
Dana raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“He told me to stop.” You shake your head. “Then he picked it up himself. Like I couldn’t have done that.”
Princess playfully rolls her eyes. “Sounds about right.”
“I tried carrying a grocery bag.”
“One?” Princess asks.
“One. And he took it away.”
Perlah nods. “Also expected.”
You look between them. “You guys aren’t surprised by any of this?”
Dana smiles. “Not by Dad Robby.” She gestures around the department. “Work Robby? He’ll hand a resident six patients…”
Princess nods. “Then disappear.”
Dana laughs. “Not disappear. Just hover from across the department.”
Perlah nods. “He lets us do our jobs.”
“Until somebody looks confused,” Princess adds. “Then suddenly he’s standing beside you asking what your plan is.”
Dana points toward you. “And somehow you ended up with the opposite version.”
Princess grins. “You’ve apparently lost all independent function.”
“And at home?” Princess grins. “You’ve apparently lost all independent function.”
You laugh. “Pretty much. I told him I could carry the groceries.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘I know you can. Humor me.’”
Dana smiles into her coffee. “Yep. That’s Dad Robby.”
Princess shakes her head with a grin. “I knew he’d hover. I just didn’t realize he’d be one minor inconvenience away from wrapping you in bubble wrap.”
“Who’s wrapping who in bubble wrap?”
The voice comes from behind the nurses’ station.
You turn as a young resident rounds the corner, a patient chart tucked beneath one arm. She slows when she notices the small crowd gathered around you.
Princess smirks. “Dad Robby apparently decided baby mama here isn’t allowed to do anything by herself anymore.”
The resident looks at you. Then at your stomach. Recognition flashes across her face.
“Holy shit.” She points at you. “You’re the Vegas wife.”
You nod. “That’s me.”
She walks the rest of the way over.
“I’m Santos.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
Santos sighs. “I’m so annoyed.”
You laugh. “Why?”
“I was off the day you walked in here and chewed Robby’s ass in front of the entire department.”
Princess snorts. “She’s still bitter.”
Santos gestures toward the nurses. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to hear these two tell that story?”
Perlah smiles over the rim of her coffee. “At least once a week.”
“Minimum,” Princess agrees.
Santos looks back at you. “Meanwhile, I missed the live performance.”
You laugh. “Sorry I couldn’t schedule it around your shifts.”
“That would’ve been appreciated,” Santos says. “I’ve just had to settle for the reruns.”
Princess laughs. “She’s heard every version of the story.”
Santos nods. “Which means…” She tilts her head. “I only have one question.”
Princess scoffs. “No, you don’t.”
“Fine,” Santos says. “I have several. But this one’s been bothering me the longest.”
You couldn’t help but smirk. “Go ahead.”
Santos looks at you. “Did Elvis actually marry you?”
You open your mouth. Then stop. You think about it for a moment.
“Honestly?” You laugh. “I have no idea.”
Santos blinks.
“You don’t know?”
You shake your head. “I remember making fun of Michael’s name.”
Princess laughs. “That part I believe.”
“I remember wearing this discount wedding dress.” You pause. “I have absolutely no idea where we got it.”
“You bought a wedding dress while blackout drunk?” Santos asks.
“Apparently.”
“Classy,” Santos says.
“There was definitely a dollar-store veil.”
Perlah nods. “Also classy.”
You laugh. “Very.”
You search your memory for another second before giving up with a shrug. “After that… it’s mostly a blur.”
Princess sighs dramatically. “So nobody knows if Elvis was there.”
“Not unless Michael remembers more than I do.”
Dana lets out a quiet laugh. “And we all know how willing he is to discuss Vegas.”
Princess sighs dramatically. “There goes half my questions.”
“Half?” Santos scoffs. “I’ve got at least twelve more.”
“Get in line,” Princess says. “We’ve been trying for months.”
“Trust me,” you say. “If I ever remember anything else, you’ll be the first to know.”
Princess points at you. “I’m holding you to that.”
Dana smiles. “Leave the poor woman alone.”
“I am,” Santos says. “I’m changing topics.” She looks back at you. “Boy or girl?”
You shake your head. “We don’t know.”
Princess blinks. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“You wanted it to be a surprise?”
You smile. “Actually, Michael did.”
That earns a few surprised looks. “Really?” Dana asks.
You nod. “I wanted to find out.”
“What changed your mind?” Perlah asks.
You smile to yourself. “He said there aren’t that many real surprises left in life anymore.”
Princess presses a hand to her chest. “I could never.”
Santos laughs. “Me neither.”
Perlah smiles. “I’d have made it about three days.”
You laugh. “Trust me, I’ve been tempted.”
Dana looks at you over the rim of her coffee. “But you’re waiting.”
You nod. “Now I kind of like the idea. We’ve made it this far.”
“Some are practical,” you say. “Some are just…” You gesture vaguely. “Michael reasons.”
Princess tilts her head. “What’s a Michael reason?”
You grin.
“‘Kids are mean. It’ll get shortened into a stupid nickname.’”
Santos snorts.
“That’s fair.”
“‘Nobody’s ever going to spell it right.’” Dana adds.
You point at her. “See? You know him.”
Dana smiles. “We’ve worked with him a long time.”
Perlah chuckles. “How many names has he vetoed?”
You pretend to think. “Enough that I wait to see his face before I get attached.”
Princess laughs. “That’s rough.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “The birth certificate will just say ‘Baby Robinavitch.’”
You laugh. “At this rate? Maybe.”
Princess points a finger at you. “You’ve got twelve weeks.”
“That’s what I keep telling him.”
Dana smiles. “You will. You have plenty of time.”
You look over. “You seem awfully confident.”
Dana shrugs. “I’ve seen a lot of parents who swore they’d never agree.” She smiles. “Somehow they always do.”
Princess points at you. “You’d better. I’m invested now.”
You laugh. “No pressure or anything.”
“None whatsoever,” Princess says with a grin.
The conversation drifts for a moment as the department moves around you. A paramedic wheels an empty stretcher toward the ambulance bay. Somewhere behind you, a phone rings twice before someone answers it. One of the monitors chirps insistently until a nurse reaches over to silence it.
Dana takes another sip of her coffee, her attention briefly following a resident jogging toward one of the trauma rooms.
Then she smiles. “There he is.”
You turn instinctively.
Robby steps out of one of the treatment rooms, pulling off a pair of gloves as he thanks the patient’s family. One of the residents catches him with a question before he can get very far.
He stops. Listens. Answers. Points something out on the chart the resident is holding. The resident nods, scribbles one last note, then hurries away.
Robby starts walking again, stopping at another room just long enough to check on one of his patients before moving on.
You watch him weave around a stretcher being pushed toward radiology. A nurse catches his attention long enough for him to answer a quick question. He points toward one of the trauma rooms, exchanges a few more words, then keeps moving.
Princess smiles to herself. “He’s almost free.”
Dana nods. “Looks like it.”
You shift your weight. “I should probably let him know I’m here.”
“You won’t have to.”
Almost as though he’d heard her, Robby looks up. His eyes sweep over the nurses’ station automatically.
Princess.
Perlah.
Dana.
Then they find you.
He stops.
It lasts barely a second. Just long enough for something in his expression to change.
The lines of concentration ease. The exhaustion is still there. You doubt that will disappear anytime soon. But when he sees you, the corner of his mouth lifts into an easy smile.
“There you are.”
You smile before you even realize you’re doing it. “Here I am.”
He crosses the rest of the distance, slipping the gloves into a nearby trash can as he walks. By the time he reaches you, the pen is already clipped neatly back into his scrub pocket.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
He looks you over the way he always does lately, not obviously enough for anyone else to notice, but thoroughly enough that you know exactly what he’s doing.
Checking.
You look comfortable.
You aren’t shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Your shoulders look relaxed.
You’re smiling.
“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”
You shake your head. “No.” A smile tugs at your lips. “I’ve been… occupied.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Oh?”
He glances around the nurses’ station.
Dana looks entirely too pleased with herself. Princess is practically vibrating with amusement. Perlah has already gone back to charting, though the corner of her mouth still twitches.
Robby looks back at you. “Should I be concerned?”
You laugh. “Not at all.”
Dana folds her arms. “We’ve just been getting acquainted.”
His eyes return to yours. “They haven’t scared you away yet?”
“No.” You smile. “They’ve actually been really nice.”
Something softens in his expression. “I’m glad.”
The words settle somewhere deeper than you expect. “I almost spared us both.”
He looks at you. “About what?”
“I was about five seconds away from texting you that I’d just meet you at the office.”
“Really?”
You nod. “I thought walking back in here was going to be a lot more awkward than it turned out to be.”
His eyes search yours. “What changed your mind?”
You glance around the nurses’ station. Dana gives you a little wave. Princess wiggles her fingers while Perlah glances up from her chart with a small smile.
You laugh. “I got kidnapped.”
Dana looks offended. “Escorted.”
Princess nods solemnly. “Against her will.”
“Very much against my will,” you agree.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.”
“You should have.”
He looks around the station.
“Thanks.”
The room falls unexpectedly quiet for half a second.
Dana only smiles. “We like her.”
Princess nods. “She’s funny.”
Perlah looks up from her chart. “You’ve got good taste.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks.
Robby lets out a quiet breath you don’t think anyone else notices. If anything, he looks relieved.
He glances toward the treatment rooms. The moment lasts only a heartbeat before work pulls at him again.
“I’ve still got one patient.”
“That’s okay.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer.”
“You don’t have to rush.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking about it.”
“I know.”
Dana leans one hip against the counter. “She’s got a chair. We’re not letting her wander off.”
Robby looks at you. “I know.”
His attention lingers for another second before he looks back at Dana. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
Dana’s expression softens. “She is.”
He looks back at you. “You comfortable?”
You glance around the nurses’ station. A few minutes ago, you were looking for the nearest exit.
Now…
Dana sips her coffee beside you. Princess and Perlah have already fallen back into the comfortable rhythm of the nurses’ station, picking up where their day left off.
It feels strangely easy.
You meet his eyes again. “I am now.”
His shoulders loosen, the tension you’d barely noticed finally slipping away.
“Good.” He starts to turn away, then hesitates. “You need anything?”
You smile. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
You nod toward the treatment rooms. “Go finish your patient.”
For a second, he looks like he wants to argue.
Instead, he nods.
“Okay.” He takes a step backward. “I’ll come get you.”
“I know you will.”
For another moment, neither of you moves.
Then someone calls from farther down the hall.
“Robby?”
His attention shifts instinctively toward the voice before finding you one last time.
“I’ll be back.”
You smile. “I’ll be here.”
He smiles once more before disappearing back into the organized chaos of the emergency department.
You watch him make it only a few steps before another resident intercepts him with a chart. He stops without complaint, already scanning the page as she explains.
Beside you, Dana lets out a quiet breath through her nose.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” The corner of her mouth lifts as she watches him.
Princess glances over. “That was definitely not nothing.”
Dana only shakes her head and turns back to the computer. “I said nothing.”
The conversation fades as naturally as it started.
Dana returns to charting, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Princess answers a ringing phone before transferring the call to another extension, scribbling a room number onto a sticky note. Perlah responds to a question from across the counter without ever looking up from her screen.
Around you, the emergency department slips back into its rhythm. Stretchers roll by. Phones ring often enough that they almost become part of the background. Someone calls for respiratory. A monitor chimes somewhere down the hall before falling silent again.
It should feel overwhelming. Instead, after a while, it almost feels choreographed.
Not calm.
There is nothing calm about an emergency department. But everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.
You shift in the chair, stretching one leg out beneath you. The baby rolls lazily under your hand. Your palm settles there without thinking.
“Everything okay?” Dana asks without looking up.
You smile. “Yeah. They’ve been moving all morning.”
Princess looks up from the phone she’d just hung up. “Already keeping you busy?”
“They’re practicing for the Olympics.”
Princess laughs. “You’re in for a long few months.”
You sigh dramatically. “Don’t remind me.”
Another transport team wheels a patient toward imaging. Someone calls for environmental services. Princess disappears into one of the rooms carrying a warm blanket while Dana answers another phone.
Time passes without asking your permission. Eventually, your eyes drift across the department again. You find Robby almost immediately. He’s back at one of the computers now, a resident standing beside him with a chart tucked under her arm.
She talks.
He listens.
When she finishes, he asks a question. She frowns, looks back at the chart, thinks for a second, then answers. He points at something on the screen. Understanding crosses her face almost instantly. She thanks him and hurries away.
Before he’s even turned back to the computer, someone else stops him. Then another. A nurse. A resident. A patient’s family.
He never seems rushed. Never looks over anyone’s shoulder. Never acts like someone else’s question is getting in the way of whatever he was doing before.
Your attention wanders again. Dana and Princess are quietly debating something over a chart. Perlah is explaining discharge instructions to a patient.
The department keeps moving. So does Robby.
When you notice him again, he’s crossed to one of the exam rooms. An older couple stands with him. The woman is speaking. Her husband stares quietly at the floor. Even from across the department, you can tell Robby isn’t trying to hurry them. He simply listens.
After a moment, he says something you can’t hear. The woman smiles first. Then, slowly, so does her husband. They disappear into the room together. The door clicks shut behind them. Without realizing it, you smile too.
You came here expecting to spend the morning waiting for Michael. Instead, you find yourself watching him. Not because you’re trying to. Because every few minutes, your eyes seem to find him on their own.
You shift in your chair, absently rubbing your side before reaching into your purse for your phone. Your OB appointment. The time on the screen makes your eyebrows lift. You hadn’t realized how much of the morning has slipped by. Almost instinctively, you look up.
Almost as if he feels you looking at him, Robby looks up too.
Your eyes meet across the department. His expression changes immediately. He glances at the clock above the nurses’ station, runs a hand briefly over the back of his neck, then starts toward you.
He makes it exactly halfway. A nurse steps out of a room and catches his attention. You watch him stop. Listen. Answer. Ask one question of his own. The nurse nods and hurries off.
Only then does he continue toward you.
“I’m sorry,” he says before he’s even reached you. “I know we’re getting close.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay.”
“No.” An apologetic smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “I told you I’d only be a few minutes.”
You smile. “It has only been a few minutes.”
He gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“I’m serious.” His eyes flick toward the hallway he’d just come from before returning to you. “I’ve just got one more thing to wrap up.”
Dana snorts without looking up from her chart. “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”
Robby sighs. “I know.” He looks back at you. “I promise.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m almost done.”
“Five minutes,” Dana calls after him.
He lifts a hand in acknowledgment and turns. He’d only gone a few steps before someone calls his name.
“Robby.”
He stops.
A woman in navy blue surgical scrubs crosses the department toward him with the easy confidence of someone who spends plenty of time in the emergency department. She looks to be around your age, her dark blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail, a tablet tucked against her side.
“Melissa,” Robby says.
“You got a second?”
His eyes flick toward the nurses’ station. Toward you. Then to the clock.
“Yeah,” he says with an apologetic smile. “But you’ve got about sixty seconds.”
Melissa laughs. “I’ll take it.”
She nods toward a quieter stretch of hallway just outside the trauma rooms. “Come here.”
He follows her a few steps away.
Melissa turns the tablet toward him, pointing at something on the screen.
He leans in beside her, studying it. She explains something. He nods once. Asks a question. Whatever she answers makes him huff a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
He says something back.
Melissa smiles wider. “You’re impossible.”
He gives her an easy grin. “I’ve been told.”
She rolls her eyes, still smiling, and reaches for the tablet. Her fingers brush his forearm as she takes the tablet. The contact lasts only a moment before she’s already stepping back.
“Wow.” Princess sighs dramatically.
You glance over. She’s stopped typing. Her fingers still rest on the keyboard, but her attention is fixed down the hallway.
Perlah looks up from the chart she’s been reviewing. “She’s here already?”
Princess nods. “Right on schedule.”
You follow both of their gazes toward Robby. Melissa is still talking. Robby listens, says something you can’t hear, and she laughs.
“What?” you ask.
Princess nods toward the hallway. “Our orthopedic surgeon.”
“Melissa?”
“The one and only.”
You watch another moment.
Melissa turns the tablet toward him. Robby leans in to look, says something, and another smile spreads across her face.
“Am I missing something?”
Princess laughs. “A little.”
Perlah smiles to herself. “More than a little.”
Princess lowers her voice, though no one around them seems to be paying attention.
“Melissa has been in all over Robby for…” She looks thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “I don’t even know how long.”
“At least a year,” Perlah says.
Princess shakes her head. “Longer.”
“Probably.”
You blink. “Really?”
Princess looks at you like you’ve just asked whether the sky is blue.
“Oh, yeah.”
Perlah nods toward the hallway. “Watch.”
You do.
Melissa says something else. Robby answers. She laughs. Then she reaches over to take the tablet back. Her fingers brush lightly across his forearm. They linger there for just a second before she pulls away.
“She does that a lot?” you ask quietly.
Princess barks out a laugh. “Every chance she gets.”
Perlah takes a sip of her coffee. “I think she’s actually getting worse.”
Princess nods. “The other day she somehow had three ortho consults before noon.”
Perlah raises an eyebrow. “Two of them probably could’ve waited.”
Princess leans a little closer.
“And somehow…” She gestures subtly toward Robby. “they’re always his patients.”
You watch Melissa laugh again. “Have they ever hooked up?”
Princess laughs. “Not that anybody knows of.”
Perlah glances toward the hallway. “Not for lack of trying on Melissa’s part.”
Princess smirks. “Believe me, if they had, we’d know.”
You look back down the hallway.
Melissa is still smiling.
Robby smiles back.
“Then why does he keep… entertaining it?”
Princess shrugs. “Because he likes the attention.”
Perlah nods toward the hallway. “He certainly doesn’t discourage it.”
Your eyes snap back to them. “You really think he’s flirting with her?”
Princess gives you a look. “Girl…”
You look.
Robby says something.
Melissa smiles.
He smiles back.
She laughs again.
Princess gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “That’s what he does.”
Perlah nods in agreement. “He’s charming.”
“Very charming,” Princess says. She holds up an open hand. “Five minutes.” Then she points toward Robby. “Give Robby five minutes with almost any woman in this hospital, and she’ll be blushing before he walks away.”
Perlah smiles. “She’s not wrong.”
“So,” Your eyes stay on the hallway. “she’s not the first?”
Princess laughs outright. “Oh, girl.”
Perlah closes the chart in front of her. “Not even close.”
“What does that mean?”
Princess rests her chin in her hand. “Robby dated.”
Perlah nods. “A lot.”
Princess starts counting on her fingers. “Nurses.” Another finger. “Residents.” Another. “Attendings.”
You look at her. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah.” Princess smiles. “The running joke around here is Robby’s seven-week itch.”
You frown. “The what?”
“He dates somebody for six or seven weeks.” She holds up one finger. “They break up.” A second finger. “A few weeks later…” A third. “there’s somebody else.”
Perlah shrugs. “It happens enough that people start taking bets.”
Princess laughs. “We’re kidding.” She pauses. “Mostly.”
For a long moment, nobody says anything.
Your eyes drift back toward the hallway.
Melissa laughs again.
Robby smiles.
He says something else.
She reaches over, touching his arm as she answers.
Your stomach tightens.
It doesn’t make any sense.
You and Michael aren’t together.
Not really.
You’re two people who got drunk in Las Vegas, accidentally got married, accidentally made a baby, and somehow ended up living under the same roof.
That isn’t a relationship.
At least…
It isn’t supposed to be.
So why does the idea of him with someone else make your chest feel tight?
Next to you, Princess glances at Perlah. Perlah meets her eyes for the briefest moment. Something unspoken passes between them.
Princess clears her throat. “I mean…” She looks back toward Robby. “It’s not really like that anymore.”
Perlah nods. “I honestly can’t remember the last time he dated anyone.”
“Me neither,” Princess admits.
“He used to.” She shrugs. “But… it’s been a while.”
Perlah closes the chart in front of her. “A long while.”
You force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”
Both women look at you.
You shrug, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels.
“It’s not like we’re in a relationship.”
Neither of them answers. They only look at each other again before Princess quietly reaches for her coffee.
“We’re just…” You gesture vaguely with one hand. “Two people who happen to be married, living together, and having a baby.”
The words sound ridiculous the second they leave your mouth. “That doesn’t mean either of us can’t date someone else.”
Neither of them looks convinced.
You aren’t sure you are either.
Princess busies herself with her coffee. Perlah opens the chart she’d just closed, though you aren’t entirely convinced she’s reading it.
You look back toward the hallway.
Melissa is gone.
Robby is already moving again, weaving through the department with the same steady purpose he always does. He pauses at a patient’s room, answers a question from one of the residents, scribbles something onto a chart, then disappears briefly behind a curtain.
You tell yourself not to watch him.
Somehow, your eyes keep finding him anyway.
Melissa is gone.
Their conversation is over. So why can’t you stop thinking about it?
Your hand drifts absentmindedly across the side of your stomach.
Twenty-seven weeks.
Somewhere between a drunken wedding chapel in Las Vegas and twenty-seven weeks pregnant, everything had simply happened.
You moved into his house.
Started buying groceries together.
Shared dinners.
Argued over prenatal vitamins.
Learned each other’s routines.
Every night he knocks softly on your bedroom door.
“Need anything?”
Every morning he leaves you coffee before he goes to work.
Every evening you eat dinner together.
None of it ever felt strange.
Every decision simply made sense.
Until one day you look around and realize you’ve somehow built something that looks remarkably like a marriage.
Except…
Neither of you has ever talked about what your marriage actually is.
You’ve never gone on a date.
Never had the awkward conversation about whether either of you is seeing someone else.
How has that never come up?
The realization settles quietly.
Not because anything has changed.
Nothing has.
Michael is still Michael.
The only thing that’s changed…
Is you.
A few minutes later, Robby glances toward the nurses’ station. His gaze finds yours almost immediately.
He says something to the resident beside him, hands over the chart, and starts walking in your direction.
Princess notices before you do.
“Well,” she says, a grin spreading across her face. “Looks like your visit is finally over.”
By the time you look back, Robby is already closing the distance between you.
“I’m sorry,” he says before he’s even reached the nurses’ station. “That took longer than I thought.”
There was genuine guilt in his voice.
You smiled automatically. “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.” He glanced at the clock on the wall before looking back at you. “I hate making you wait.”
“You didn’t exactly have a slow afternoon.”
A tired smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No.”
His eyes swept over you with the same quiet thoroughness they always did. “You doing okay?”
You nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Back bothering you?”
“A little.”
“Worse than this morning?”
“About the same.”
He nodded, filing the information away like he always did. “Have you been drinking your water?”
You looked down at the bottle sitting beside you. “Most of it.”
“Good.”
His gaze lingered on you for another second, as though making sure you were telling the truth.
Then, without thinking, he reached down and picked up your purse from beside the chair, already settling the strap over his own shoulder.
“Ready?”
Your eyes stayed on him for just a moment longer than they normally would have.
He looked exactly the same.
Rumpled navy scrubs. Stethoscope hanging around his neck. Hair slightly messier than it had been twenty minutes ago.
Nothing about him had changed.
Only the questions you’d started asking.
“What?”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
You forced another small smile and pushed yourself carefully to your feet. “Yeah.”
He waited until you were steady before falling into step beside you, adjusting his pace without a word to match yours as the two of you started toward the elevators.
Just like he always did.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
He glanced over.
“Everything all right?”
You nodded. “I’m okay.”
“You sure? You seem quiet.”
“No, I’m okay just tired.”
He studied your face for another second before seeming satisfied. “Okay.”
The walk to the obstetrics clinic was considerably quieter than the emergency department below.
The overhead pages disappeared. So did the constant ringing phones and hurried footsteps.
Here, everything moved slower. People smiled as they passed. A nurse wheeled an empty bassinet down the hallway. Someone laughed behind a half-open office door. It felt like an entirely different hospital.
Michael glanced at his watch. “I think we’re actually early.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was fully expecting somebody to stop me on the way.”
“You were stopped.”
He smiled back. “I still made good time.”
“You say that like you won.”
“I did.”
You laughed quietly.
The receptionist looked up as the two of you approached.
“Hi,” she greeted warmly. “Name?”
You gave it.
She clicked a few things on her computer before nodding.
“They’re just finishing with another patient. It shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.”
“Okay,” you said.
Michael thanked her automatically before following you toward the waiting area.
There were plenty of empty chairs. You sat. He sat beside you. Not because there weren’t other seats. Just beside you.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. For the first time since leaving the emergency department, he looked like he wasn’t thinking about work.
He looks over. “What?”
You hadn’t realized you’d been watching him again. “Nothing.”
He studies you for a moment. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.”
“Have I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
You smile. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
A small shrug.
“I notice when you’re quiet.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You notice everything.”
“I try to.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It rarely is.
A young couple walked past holding hands. The woman was carrying an ultrasound photo. The man slipped an arm around her shoulders as they disappeared down the hallway.
You watched them go.
Without meaning to. Michael followed your gaze. Neither of you commented.
A few seconds later, your name was called. Michael stood before you had the chance.
“You ready?”
You looked up at him. “Yeah.”
He smiled. The same quiet, reassuring smile he’d worn before every appointment.
—
The house is quiet when you hear the front door open.
A little after seven.
Keys land in the ceramic bowl by the entryway with their familiar clink. The front door clicks shut, followed a second later by the soft thud of shoes hitting the hardwood floor.
You don’t have to look.
Somewhere along the way, the sound of Robby coming home had become as familiar as the hum of the dishwasher or the coffee maker starting before sunrise.
You stir the pasta slowly, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.
A moment later, Robby appears in the doorway.
His navy scrubs are wrinkled from a long day, the sleeves pushed carelessly to his forearms. His hair is slightly messier than it had been that morning, faint shadows lingering beneath his eyes.
He looks exhausted.
The kind of tired that settles into someone’s shoulders after twelve hours in the emergency department.
Then he sees you. Something in his expression softens. Not dramatically. Just enough.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Hi.”
You smile back. “Hi.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
His eyes drift automatically to your stomach. The movement is so familiar now that you barely notice it anymore. It’s simply become part of the way he comes home.
“How’ve you been feeling since the appointment?”
“Fine.”
“No cramping?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“Headache?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
A quiet laugh escapes you. “I’m still fine.”
“Just checking.”
“I know.”
He crosses to the sink and washes his hands while you stir the pasta. The kitchen settles into its usual rhythm, the rush of running water, the gentle bubbling of the pot, the soft scrape of the wooden spoon against the bottom.
Neither of you feels the need to fill the silence.
“You sure everything felt okay afterward?”
You glance over your shoulder. “Michael.”
“Hm?”
“You were there.”
“I know.”
“You heard Dr. Patel.”
“I did.”
“You heard her say everything looked perfect.”
“I did.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So why are you asking me again?”
He turns off the faucet, dries his hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, and gives one shoulder a small shrug.
“Habit.”
Your smile grows despite yourself. “I noticed.”
His own smile lingers as he walks past you to the cabinet, reaching automatically for two plates before setting them on the counter.
Neither of you says a word about it. You don’t have to. It’s simply become part of the evening.
He leans against the counter while you finish dinner, watching you in the quiet way he always does.
A few minutes later, the two of you settle at the table.
You set the bowl of pasta between you before taking your seat. Robby reaches for it first, serving you before filling his own plate.
Neither of you comments on it.
You never do.
The first few minutes pass the way they usually do, the quiet clink of forks against ceramic plates filling the space between you.
Normally, this is when one of you starts talking.
Robby tells you about his shift. You tell him about your day. Sometimes you catch him skipping lunch. Sometimes he catches you doing more around the house than you’re supposed to.
Most evenings, one conversation simply rolls into the next until dinner is over and neither of you remembers who started it.
Tonight…
You catch yourself looking across the table at Michael.
He’s eating like he always does.
Tired.
Quiet.
Twirling pasta around his fork while he listens to the evening news murmuring softly from the living room.
Completely unaware that, somewhere between Las Vegas and tonight, the two of you had built a life without ever deciding what to call it.
You wonder if he’s confused too. Or if, somewhere along the way, he’d quietly answered it without ever telling you.
You lower your eyes to your plate. The pasta has gone cold. You can’t remember the last thing either of you said.
Across the table, Robby lifts his eyes to you.
You know that look. He’s noticed. Of course he has. He always notices.
“Everything okay?”
You blink, pulling yourself back into the room. “Hm?”
His expression softens. “You disappeared for a minute.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
You offer him a small smile. “I’m okay.”
He studies you for another second. “You sure?”
You nod. “Just tired.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he lets it go.
He reaches for his fork again and takes another bite.
The silence settles back over the table. You think that’s the end of it. Then you hear him set his fork down.
He turns it absently between his fingers before looking up at you again. “You’re thinking pretty hard.”
You blink. “Am I?”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”
You glance down at your plate. “I didn’t realize.”
“You usually ask me how work was before dinner’s half over.”
You hadn’t.
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
You look down. He isn’t wrong. Most of the pasta is exactly where you’d put it the first time you served yourself.
“I’m trying not to overthink something.”
His eyes stay on yours.
Calm.
Patient.
“How’s that working out for you?”
A quiet laugh escapes before you can stop it. “Not great.”
The smile he gives you is small. Understanding. He doesn’t ask what you’re thinking about. Doesn’t guess. Doesn’t fill the silence. He simply waits.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But you can.”
You turn your fork against the edge of your plate, slower than necessary, the faint scrape stretching out in the quiet like it’s trying to fill the space for you.
“Can I ask you something?”
Across from you, Robby looks up. “Always.”
You nod, but your attention stays fixed on your dinner. “It’s… not bad.”
He sets his fork down. “I wasn’t assuming it was.”
“I know.” You pick at a piece of chicken you’ve already cut into bites. “I’ve just been thinking.”
“I noticed.”
A quiet laugh slips out. “Was I that obvious?”
“You’ve been staring at the same piece of broccoli for about five minutes.”
You glance down. “I have.”
“You also sighed three times.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
A reluctant smile tugs at your lips. “I hate that you notice things.”
“I’ve been told it’s part of my job.”
The smile lingers for another second before fading.
You let out a slow breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you this all day.”
His expression softens. “Okay.”
“I had it all planned out.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“And now…” You gesture vaguely with your fork. “it’s gone.”
He doesn’t rush you. He simply waits.
You look around the kitchen. The dishwasher hummed quietly. His coffee mug still sat beside the sink. The sweatshirt he’d tossed over the back of the couch after work. Without meaning to, your eyes linger there.
“We’ve been doing this for a while now.”
Robby nods once.
“Yeah.”
“We got married.”
“We did.”
“There was… everything after Vegas.”
“There was.”
“You asked me to stay.”
“I did.”
“And I did.”
“You did.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“And then we just…” Your hand moves between the two of you. “kept doing this.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Doing what?”
You shrug helplessly.
“This. Dinner. Appointments.” You gestured around the kitchen. “Everything.”
You shake your head. “I’ve never really stopped to think about it.”
“About what?”
You look at him. “Whatever this is.”
Silence settles between you.
“I realized today…” You stop.
The thought slips away before you can catch it.
“Oh, come on.”
You close your eyes for a second, frustrated. “I swear this made perfect sense before I sat down.”
“I believe you.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I do.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “I just don’t know where you’re going yet.”
“I don’t either anymore.” Another sigh escapes you. “I know why I’ve kept doing this.”
The words come quietly.
“I just…” You meet his eyes. “I don’t know why you have.”
His forehead creases. “What do you mean?”
You rub your thumb along the handle of your fork
“I don’t know.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “That’s kind of the problem.”
You finally look back up.
“I just realized…” You shake your head. “I never asked if you still wanted me to.”
His brow knits together. “What do you mean?”
“You asked me to stay.”
“I did.”
“You wanted to help.”
“I did.”
You nod. “I know that.”
He waits, letting you continue.
“But we never talked about what happened after that. We never talked about how long,” you say quietly.
Robby nods. “No, we didn’t.”
You look back down at your plate. “You asked me to stay because you wanted to help.”
“I did.”
“And then…” You shrug helplessly. “We just kept going.”
He is quiet for a moment before answering.
“I guess we did.” He leans back slightly. “But I don’t think it was just one decision.”
You look at him. “What do you mean?”
Robby rests his forearms on the table.
“When I asked you to stay…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “That wasn’t me deciding what the next year was going to look like.”
You frown. “It wasn’t?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
He glances down at his plate before meeting your eyes again. “I asked you to stay because I wanted to help.”
“I know.”
“But after that…” He gives a small shrug. “There were a lot of opportunities for things to go differently.”
You stay quiet, waiting.
“If I’d decided living together wasn’t working, we would’ve had that conversation.”
He lets that settle before continuing.
“If I’d decided I couldn’t make your appointments anymore, I would’ve told you.” A faint smile crosses his face. “Instead, I somehow end up reading three pregnancy books.”
A quiet laugh escapes you, breaking some of the tension between you.
His smile lingers for only a moment before his expression turns thoughtful again.
“My point is…” He gestures between the two of you. “None of this has just been happening to me.”
You look at him.
“I’ve been making those decisions too.”
The humor fades from your face.
“You never thought…” You search for the words. “that somewhere along the way it stopped being your choice?”
Robby looks genuinely surprised.
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “I never thought that.”
Silence settles over the kitchen again.
You stare at the edge of your plate.
“I think…” Your voice is quieter now. “I just didn’t want to keep assuming.”
His brow furrows. “Assuming what?”
You gesture vaguely between the two of you, the house, everything that has quietly become routine.
“That we were both still okay with… all of this.” You let out a slow breath. “We never actually asked each other.”
Robby is quiet for a moment.
Then he nods once.
“No.” His voice is thoughtful. “I guess we didn’t.”
You are quiet for a second, letting his words settle.
Finally, you nod.
“Okay.” Your gaze drifts back to your plate. “I guess we were overdue for this conversation.”
Robby nods once. “I think so too.”
Another silence settles between you. This one feels different. Not uncomfortable. Just… thoughtful.
You push a piece of chicken around your plate with your fork before speaking again.
“I mean…” You let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “I hope you know you’re allowed to see other people.”
His eyebrows rise.
“I am?”
You shrug.
“I don’t expect you to put your life on hold because I’m living here.” A crooked smile tugs at your lips. “I’d just… maybe recommend her place.”
He blinks.
You sigh dramatically.
“Think about it.” You motion around the kitchen. “It’d be a little awkward if she woke up in the morning and found your pregnant Vegas wife making coffee.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. “That would be awkward.”
“See?”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s a very specific scenario.”
“It feels like a realistic one.”
The laughter fades.
Robby looks at you for a long moment. “Why are you telling me that?”
You look back at him.
“Because I realize I’d never actually said it.” You toy with your fork. “I don’t want you to think you have to stop living your life because I’m here.”
He holds your gaze for a moment before answering. “I’ve never thought that.”
The kitchen falls quiet again.
Robby watches you for a long moment. “Can I ask you something?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He hesitates, choosing his words. “Are you telling me this because you’re thinking about seeing someone?”
Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “No.”
He watches you quietly.
“Okay.” His expression stays calm. “I just don’t want to misunderstand what you’re saying.”
You shake your head.
“No.” Your voice softens. “This isn’t about me.”
He studies you for another moment before nodding once. “Okay.”
The kitchen settles back into silence.
After a moment, he looks down at his plate.
“For what it’s worth…” He turns his fork between his fingers. “It honestly hasn’t crossed my mind.”
You look up.
“My life’s been…” He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “A little full lately.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Between work…” He gestures vaguely around the house. “everything that’s changed…” His eyes flick toward your stomach. “getting ready for the baby…”
He gives a small shrug.
“I just haven’t had the headspace.”
You are quiet for a moment.
“Okay.”
You smile, small but genuine. “I just wanted to make sure.”
He nods once. “Now you know.”
The silence that settles between you feels different this time. Not awkward. Just quieter.
You stand, gathering your plate from the table. Robby reaches for it before you can make it to the sink.
“I can get it.”
“I know.”
But he takes it anyway.
You watch him disappear into the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the house a moment later.
A few hours ago, you were sitting in your car wondering if the life the two of you have fallen into exists because neither of you has ever stopped to question it.
Now you have your answer.
It isn’t obligation.
It’s choice.
Maybe not the kind either of you expected to make.
But a choice all the same.
You smile before switching off the dining room light and following him into the kitchen.
a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
A: angst F: fluff S: smut C: comfort H/C: comfort
the shark I @xreader1989 I F I your boyfriend gets a little jealous when a past situationship with a certain ortho god comes to light in front of everyone in the trauma room.
make it up to me I @cvrgrl I A + C I robby's sabbatical is right around the corner & after barely talking to you about it, he's at a loss about your distant behavior
the bond pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 I @rr-after-dark I F + A + S I You're the first omega ever to join the beta- and alpha-dominated PTMC emergency department. Over time, you find yourself relying on your alpha boss, Dr. Robinavitch, for more and more personal tasks. He becomes your friend, your protector, and, if the two of you can figure it out, even more.
yours pt2 I @/rr-after-dark I H/C + S I When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
a taste of his own medicine I @/rr-after-dark I H/C I When Robby gets a little too reckless, you scare him straight.
baby daddy!robby I @/rr-after-dark I F
human resources I @/rr-after-dark I F + S I After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
mouthing off I @/rr-after-dark I S I You and Robby are always fighting as the two day-shift attendings, to the point of screaming matches on the ED floor. After a particularly brutal back-and-forth, it seems like using each other to get off is the only way to settle things.
how easy you are to need pt2 pt3 I @robbyology I F + S I You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.
your needs, my needs pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 I @/robbyology I A + F + S I in an attempt to get over your ex-partners, you& robby decide that hooking up w/each other could potentially alleviate some of the heartache that’s been plaguing both of you.
thinking of you I @starlord-s I A
resident!reader I @/starlord-s I A + C
drabble I @/starlord-s I A
sabbatical I @/starlord-s I C
nurse!reader I @/starlord-s I A
self sabotage I @/starlord-s I A
shy!reader I @/starlord-s I C
in love I @/starlord-s I F
drabble I @/starlord-s I A
all my flowers for you I @thatfanficstuff I H/C
stop the world, ‘cause i wanna get off with you I @se7entyrell I H/C
dr robby and tits I @loves-alibi I F + ~S
infidelity I @/loves-alibi I A + S
werewolf!michael I @/loves-alibi I F
now or never now I @youthereader I H/C + S I You were meant to be on vacation with your boyfriend, but instead you were there alone, where you meet the man across the hall from your hotel room, Michael, drinking alone in the hotel lobby.
through the glass I @relaxdiva I H/C I After amputating a patient’s crushed hand in a last effort to save his life, you head down to the ER to deliver the news — and end up assaulted by the patient’s grieving wife. As one of the best plastic surgeons on the East Coast, you know exactly what a poorly closed facial laceration can do. So with blood on your scrubs and half the department watching through the glass, you take matters into your own hands and suture your own cheek.
special treatment pt2 I @somethingeh I F I it’s hard to realize that “sweet” isn’t robby’s default, when that’s all he is to you.
in my arms I @youleftmenochoicebut I H/C I everyone knows Robby has a thing for younger women. everyone also knows that he’s been seeing someone new these past few months. finally they find out who it is.
savior complex I @lovebugism I H/C I when you're attacked on the job, you learn the hard way that you can't love the damage out of everyone, and robby learns just how far he'll go to protect you.
how to disappear I @/lovebugism I A I robby makes you hate him as his last act of kindness before he leaves for his three-month sabbatical. but then he sees you getting close to jack, and it ruins all his plans.
casual I @/lovebugism I A + ~S I robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend.
drabble I @multifandomlover01 I C
beers in the park I @love-quinn I H/C
drabble I @burgundysnow I F I Confessing your feeling for robby before he goes on sabbatical with a kiss
drabble I @/burgundysnow I A I Been thinking about baby trapping Robby
babies I @/burgundysnow I F + ~S
request I @toxicgetou I A
softer, harder, in between I @ceriseangels I A + S + F I You're in a very sticky situation with your senior attending.
give you my wild I @foxnfreaks I H/C I you hide the fact you're pregnant from robby, bc what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. right?
hard to get I @bluetimeombre I S I you and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
john carter… i know him I @/bluetimeombre I F I upon returning to the ED Robby is surprised to find not only the ED not up in flames but you have a new someone on your arms.
bet on it I @/bluetimeombre I F + ~S I you and Robby had been going steady for a few months now but when a betting board is made on who your mysterious male friend could be, Robby is not happy with the outcome.
"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader
Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.
Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)
Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture
Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!
Word Count: 11.6k
You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.
It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.
Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.
“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”
You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.
While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”
There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.
Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”
Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”
Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”
“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”
She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”
“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”
“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”
“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”
Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”
When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.
A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.
You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”
“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”
His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”
As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”
Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”
You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”
As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”
Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”
That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.
Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.
Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”
“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”
Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”
He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”
Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”
“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”
“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”
They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”
Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”
You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?
“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”
You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”
“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”
From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”
Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”
At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”
“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”
Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”
“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”
She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”
Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”
Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”
Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”
Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”
It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.
All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.
When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”
But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”
Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”
“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”
Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”
He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”
“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”
“What’d you say?”
Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”
“Very tactful.”
You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”
Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”
Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”
“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”
You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”
“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”
The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.
When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”
You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”
His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”
Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool.”
He chuckles, “I’m cool?”
“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”
“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”
“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”
Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”
You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”
“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”
Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”
“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”
You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”
“I can see that.”
You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”
“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.
“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”
He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”
You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”
He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”
Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”
Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”
You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.
After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”
“Am I?”
“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”
“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”
“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”
Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”
The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”
The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.
With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”
His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.
Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”
It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”
“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”
And, god, is that sexy.
You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.
Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.
After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”
You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.
You eat lunch together.
You talk.
You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.
It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.
Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.
He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”
Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.
Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest. With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”
His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”
Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”
“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”
You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”
His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”
That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”
“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”
You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”
“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”
“Sorry again for-”
“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”
“Then thanks.”
“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”
“I can tell.”
As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.
That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.
It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.
The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”
Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”
“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining”
Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”
Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”
Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”
Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”
When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”
The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…
When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.
You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.
After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”
He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”
“So what was all the yelling for?”
Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”
A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”
Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”
All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”
With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”
“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”
Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”
“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”
“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”
“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m begging you.”
You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”
For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”
That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”
A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”
“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”
Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”
Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”
You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”
“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”
It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”
“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”
“I have the whole weekend.”
Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”
“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”
“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”
“Ten.”
“Pick me up at 9:30.”
“I could take you to breakfast first.”
“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”
“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”
“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”
Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.
He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”
You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.
Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”
Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”
“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”
He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”
“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”
“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”
“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”
“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.
Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.
When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.
“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”
“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”
Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.
When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”
With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”
His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”
You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.
By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”
Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”
He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”
He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.
“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”
You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”
He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”
Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”
“Yup, absolutely.”
You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”
He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”
You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”
“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”
You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”
Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”
It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”
You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”
“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”
Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.
Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1
Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”
Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”
“Okay, but what if I-”
Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”
You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.
Then it finally starts to get good.
Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.
It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.
Possessive.
The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him.
When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.
Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”
“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”
He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”
“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”
You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”
“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”
He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”
“Now that makes me feel sexy.”
“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”
As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”
“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
And he does.
All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.
With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.
“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”
You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”
And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.
Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
✨Amateur Psychologist ✨ @howdoidothisblindsided - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
gracieabrams
snowghoul
titsay
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
